


Tea with Mrs. Granger

by Guardian_Kysra



Series: Keeping Up With the Grangers [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, EWE, Eventual HEA, F/M, Gen, Hermione doesn't know ssssssshhhhhhh, I promise, I swear on the Maurauders Map, Mentions of Necrophilia, Mentions of PTSD, Mr Granger is an honorary Hufflepuff, Mrs Granger is an honorary Slytherin, Redemption, The Path to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions, Well of All Sparks, accountability for past actions, bad situations and bad decisions, but it gets better, children of narcissistic parents, it goes without saying, loving parents just trying to do the best they can, mention of a past suicide attempt, mentions of (perceived) child loss, mentions of depression, mentions of past alcoholism, narcissistic parents, parental helplessness, she is also a tough-love parent, themes of bullying, there is a method to my madness, this is true of several characters, you can thank bellatrix for THAT tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-06-22 06:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Kysra/pseuds/Guardian_Kysra
Summary: Mr. Malfoy,I invite you and your mother to tea next Tuesday, May 25th at 2o’clock to discuss recent events.Dr. Helen Granger





	1. The Invitation

__

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

The words, black against white, mock.

Helen Granger’s fingers stall, staring at wet ink on paper and feels a small headache creep behind her eyes. It has been only a few weeks since her memories were returned; and sometimes a recollection will come unbidden but not unwelcome.

This time, in this memory Hermione is seven years old and already two weeks into the new school year. She recalls how her little girl had been so excited to begin second year of primary, reading every appropriate level book she could get her hands on during the summer (and some extra for pleasure reading). She can picture Hermione’s beaming, gape-toothed smile as she waved good-bye on the school steps before turning to enter the building, that narrow back eclipsed by a brand new over-sized pink book bag bouncing along with her pigtails with each jubilant stomp of her little feet.

Helen also remembers that the smile faded, those buoyant, big steps whittled down to a timid, quiet walk as the year proceeded . . . with a missing monogramed pencil case; then a broken lunch pail, a heavy, sodden pink book bag smelling of piss because it mysteriously ended up in the toilet; and a series of bumps, bruises, and scrapes that Hermione never had a satisfactory explanation for.

But – as heartbreaking as that was, as useless as school administration had been – what she remembers most clearly was when her strong, strong daughter came home after two weeks of abuse with two wads of gum snagged in her hair, calmly found the scissors to offer it over with a large grin on that little freckled face, saying, “I think I would like a trim, Mummy.”

_~~Dear~~ Mr. Malfoy,_

_I would like to cordially invite you_

Deciding to let the memories play out behind her eyes isn’t difficult even as she contemplates the – mostly – blank page before her. She unexpectedly lost her memories once. To have them again is just as unexpected and a genuine gift she doesn’t want to squander.

So . . . she continues to reminisce, now on a nine year old Hermione, slightly taller and thinner than her seven year old self with a fuller mouth of teeth and a thicker head of hair. She liked to plait the thick mass back then even though, by the end of the day, much of it would come free – a tangled, riotous mess. At that age, she had acquired a deep scar on the back of her right thigh that was pale and shiny and felt like the thinnest, smoothest suede stretched over a little hollow.

At age nine, Hermione – her sweet baby, always struggling to make and _keep_ friends – had finally seemed to fashion for herself a little niche within the community of classmates. Helen remembers two little girls whom had come to visit and play several times that year – Jennifer and Elizabeth. The girls didn’t seem phased by the strange happenings that sometimes occurred around Hermione, her infrequent – but sometimes explosive – bouts of, then unknown, accidental magic.

Hermione had marked Elizabeth’s birthday on the calendar and had found a gift for her friend months ahead of schedule. As the date approached, she became more and more excited about the slumber party Elizabeth had persuaded her parents to hold. A week before the proposed party, Elizabeth arrived at school with a stack of labeled lavender envelopes, taking care to distribute them at the end of the day to all of the girls in class.

All of the girls . . . except Hermione.

_I ~~would like to cordially~~ invite you and your mother to my home_

Helen wasn’t even aware. Hermione never mentioned it. She had come home from school that day, just as bright and cheery as ever, chattering on about her current literary obsession. Later, she would come to Helen, asking for help wrapping Elizabeth’s gift; and she brought the gift to school the next day. On the night of the party, Helen received a call from Elizabeth’s mother apologizing profusely for her daughter’s oversight _It’s just the other girls don’t really know Hermione but I told Lizzie, “Lizzie, you don’t exclude a friend because of the thoughtless opinions of your other friends.” And I insisted that Hermione come to the party – if you’ll allow. She’ll have so much fun and we have more than enough food and cake to go around. The girls are playing board games right now, and I know a clever girl like Hermione will be a smash!_

Helen remembers being dazed and confused as she turned down the stove flame and hung up the phone. She had called Hermione from the dining room where she had her books and folders and notebooks out studying, sat her dear daughter down then knelt in front of her to explain the phone call she just received.

Hermione had not quailed nor cried as Helen had anticipated. No, her girl looked her straight in the eye and said, “I don’t need friends who don’t like me for who I am or who will turn their backs on me because other people tell them to. I would much rather stay home with you and Dad watching old movies on the telly.”

It wasn’t the first time Helen had felt humbled by her daughter’s strength and character.

It wouldn’t be the last time either.

_I ~~would like to cordially~~ invite you and your mother ~~to my home~~ to have tea with me next Tuesday, May 25th at 2:00 pm._

A family meeting had been called that night after dinner, before movies and the telly. Helen and Richard had told Hermione in no uncertain terms that she needed to be honest with them about the hurtful things as well as the fun, happy things that might occur in school and out. They couldn’t help her cope with the bullying if they didn’t know the bullying was happening.

And she did begin telling them; and Helen and Richard were beyond thankful for their daughter’s honesty because as Hermione grew older, the bullying became less overt but no less damaging. Hermione told them when she was accosted in the washroom, when her clothes were taken from her locker during physical education, when someone dumped her notebooks in the fountain, when horrible, sexual epithets were written in permanent marker on her desk.

Helen often found that the aching empty helplessness watching Hermione go through this kind of torture day after day stole much of her spirit; but her baby never lost that smile, never bowed her head or changed. She would tell them about it all, take whatever limited comfort Helen and Richard could give, and return to whatever business eleven year old Hermione was occupied with at the time without any sign that she was bothered.

When Hermione received her Hogwarts letter nearly a year later and a (real live!) witch and wizard visited their home to explain how unique and blessed their daughter was ( _“It’s like the very best of dreams, darling! You’re going to have so many adventures!”_ ), Helen had tucked away the part of her that shriveled at the idea of sending her baby away to Scotland – into an entirely separate previously unknown world! - most of the year to focus, instead, on this new opportunity. Hermione would _finally_ have a safe place to shine in every aspect. She would meet other children just like her, just as gifted, just as magical.

She wouldn’t be dismissed as a pariah because her seatmate started exhaling bubbles in class while talking about sea life or because the light fixtures exploded into cotton candy when she could smell it through the open classroom window as a vendor passed by.

 _Perhaps_ , Helen thinks as the words on the paper taunt her, _we were all entirely too optimistic._

_I ~~would like to cordially~~ invite you and your mother ~~to my home~~ to ~~have~~ tea with me next Tuesday, May 25th at 2 ~~:00 pm.~~ o’clock to discuss various matters, past and present._

“Mum!” The shout is accompanied by muffled footsteps coming down the stairs, the pace just shy of hurried. Hermione appears in the peripheral, looking about then spotting Helen at the dining table with her paper and pen (which she immediately flips, hiding the message drafted there).

Helen smiles at her daughter even as she catalogs the tell-tale signs of stress – pale face, a subtle quiver of the teeth, the restless fidget of palms and fingers, the dark shadows around her eyes that no magic charm or make-up can completely cover. She and Richard have forbidden Hermione from silencing her room at night. The nightmares always come, and they want to be there to provide comfort.

“Leaving for your meeting?” She stands to embrace her girl-now-more-a-woman. Regular, varied meals have helped with the emaciation. Hermione’s face is more rounded than when she appeared on their porch in Sydney, her bones not quite as sharp. Her hair doesn’t clog the shower drain anymore with the sheer volume that would daily shed.

Hermione nods, the motion a little too fast to be completely natural. “I should be back by half four.”

“You have your phone? And your wand?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Of course, mum.” She pulls it out of her beaded bag, with the _illegal_ extension charm.

“Well, then,” Helen lowers her voice, leans forward to kiss Hermione’s forehead, “have a good session, love.”

For a moment, Hermione’s arms hug her. _Hard_. With fingers digging into her shoulders painfully. Helen doesn’t say anything, simply squeezes her baby girl just as tightly in a silent _I love you_.

_I ~~would like to cordially~~ invite you and your mother ~~to my home~~ to ~~have~~ tea ~~with me~~ next Tuesday, May 25th at 2 ~~:00 pm.~~ o’clock to discuss ~~various matters, past and present.~~ recent events._

Helen stares at the few words, the many scratchings. Hermione has been gone for nearly an hour and will be nearly an hour still. She rubs her weary eyes and allows herself a moment to actually feel the rage she has built up and buried for years now.

Before Hermione left for Hogwarts that first year, before it was even decided that she would be going (she remembers the days of long whispered, hissed, and soft-spoken half-arguments, half-debates she and Richard had engaged in when Hermione wasn’t around), the three of them had sat down for a serious discussion.

If they were going to do this, if they were going to let their daughter go away into this new world so mysterious and _different_ from anything they were familiar with, there were going to be some hard and fast rules of engagement.

Firstly, she and Richard would be partners in Hermione’s magical education: they would read all of her textbooks, and Hermione would be required to share and explain whatever spells, extra subjects, customs, traditions, etc. she learned about.

Secondly, Hermione would write to them _every day_ while at school. No matter what. (The only exception to this rule was when she had been petrified during second year). When she made friends, they wanted to not only know about these children but their parents as well so that they could – during hols and/or the summer – reach out and make connections with magical families to further foster Hermione’s dual life.

Thirdly, Hermione was to continue being honest with them of any sort of negative happenings, no matter how disturbing; because they – as parents – had already seen their child victimized time and again by non-magical people. And though they were optimistic this wasn’t going to again devolve into that type of situation, they were also reasonably sure that every fantasy held some measure of unknown darkness.

Hermione had excitedly agreed to all of their rules; and after their first – amazing – stint in Diagon Alley, after reading all of Hermione’s textbooks along with her (as well as a very helpful recommended book by a previous Muggle parent The Magical World and Your Magical Child: A Muggle’s Guide), and helping her decide what to pack from home, it was time to make their way to the Hogwarts Express to say “see you later” (Helen could not stomach anything else).

Helen remembers that day as if it just happened, as if she and Richard had just returned home an hour ago from the hustle and bustle of the railroad platform. She can still see Hermione’s little face, surrounded by her chaotic chestnut hair, peering at them from behind the window, a delighted smile on her young face.

Helen remembers feelings of excitement and hope but also anxiety and helplessness, of _it’s too soon_ and _what if she likes that world better than this one_. She remembers feeling lost. She remembers feeling _worried_.

She wonders briefly if there’s been a time since the doctor said “pregnant” that she _hasn’t_ been worried.

It was a mild balm to the stress that Hermione had always been rather obedient, so it was not really a surprise when an owl tapped at the kitchen window as she washed dinner plates that first night (crying into the soap bubbles at the idea of having an unexpectedly empty nest at the ripe age of thirty-nine).

That first letter was a five foot long catalog of every wonder she had experienced since boarding the Hogwarts Express; and while the entire account was enchanting, _magical_ , filled with a palpable run-on sentence type of excitement littered with exclamation points, in the midst of it all was a passage - three paragraphs long – which had worried and puzzled she and her husband for years.

It began: _And I met another boy while searching for Trevor the toad, a beautiful boy who memorized the First Year Book of Spells too! His name is Draco Malfoy and I do believe I will marry him someday._

While there was much about this boy’s wit and charisma, an entire paragraph and a half was dedicated to the color and nuance of his eyes. There had been other people she had been introduced to, other magical children just like her, but those – including the “famous” Harry Potter – had only garnered a passing mention. This Draco Malfoy had made quite an impression; and given that Hermione had never entertained even a crush before, eschewed the notion of romance really, she and her husband had felt put on notice.

The days went by in a strange time vacuum that seemed at once quick and intolerably slow. Each letter was a lifeline to sanity as well as increased worry. It became apparent early on that Hermione spent much of her time outside of class alone. Mentions of the Malfoy boy started out heavy and frequent but tapered off after Hermione wrote, _“I am not certain what happened or if I have done something to offend, but Draco Malfoy no longer seems interested in speaking to me in or out of classes.”_

Her friendships with Harry and Ron began shortly after – Helen would _never again_ forget the horror of being woken in the middle of the night by floo to be told her daughter had been attacked by a _mountain troll_. It was then she realized fully that their lives had morphed from perfectly normal slice-of-life to high fantasy where _anything_ was possible _and_ probable.

It was a lesson that proved true over and over again as every letter came, detailed with accounts of hexes, curses, potions “accidents”, pure-blood versus Muggle-blood ideology and slurs, magical criminals and prison breaks, people that could turn into animals and werewolves, and the revival of dark wizards that were thought long dead and defeated.

The death of Cedric Diggory had seen she and Richard talking of pulling Hermione out; but their daughter refused even the idea of such a thing. She needed to be there for Harry, she said. She needed to be there “till the end, no matter what.”

That was when she knew her baby girl wasn’t just a witch, she was a soldier. So they reluctantly decided to put their faith in Headmaster Dumbledore to keep the school – and Hermione – safe while the pride and worry remained, a heavy weight lodged in the vicinity of their stomachs.

As things became worse within the wizarding world, Hermione’s letters became shorter, more focused, often ending with an uncharacteristic “I love you both so much” or “You are never far from my thoughts”, and – more alarming – “keep safe and floo to the Burrow if anything strange happens.”

During that time, Draco Malfoy’s name began appearing again; but rather than more stories of bullying and general prattiness, Hermione expressed a selfless sort of worry for him, citing that he was paler than usual, quiet and isolated, _stressed and thin_.

Helen had simply been thankful something other than tormenting her daughter was keeping the boy preoccupied.

And then Headmaster Dumbledore was dead, Hermione’s heart broken and eyes haunted. She didn’t talk to them for days while she was home. She began hiding the Daily Prophet from them.

The next thing they knew, they were childless and moving to Australia.

_I ~~would like to cordially~~ invite you and your mother ~~to my home~~ to ~~have~~ tea ~~with me~~ next Tuesday, May 25th at ~~2:00 pm.~~ o’clock to discuss ~~various matters, past and present.~~ recent events._

_Sincerely,_

_Helen Granger_

No.

_~~Sincerely, Respectfully, Regards,~~ _

_Helen Granger_

“Alright there, love?”

Helen jumps in her seat, startled, to find her husband – sweaty and dirty from unpacking and cleaning the new office. She can smell him from where she sits, several feet away. “You startled me.” She reaches up to remove her reading glasses before standing to meet his kiss. “Everything coming together?”

He smirks in that roguish way that always makes her breath catch. “We should be ready to open in a month or so.” His brown eyes dart down to the sheet of paper and numerous inked scratchings. “Still at it, eh? Are you certain you want to do this?”

“It’s just an invitation. They can always decline.”

Richard plucks a nearby chair, turns it and straddles the seat, forearms resting across the back. “The question is: Will you _accept_ a declination?”

She stares at him in answer, and he sighs. “Helen . . . Darling, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish?”

Helen casts a nervous glance toward the front door, knowing Hermione will be home soon. “I’m not sure. I just _need_ to talk to him . . . to understand.”

His hand finds hers, his thumb coasting over her knuckles. “Understand what?”

The front doorknob jiggles with someone’s keys, the door opens then slams shut. Hermione’s voice is a soft call as she announces, “I’m home.”

They can hear the tears in her daughter’s tone, the slight quiver at the end of her words. Hermione always cries at these meetings.

Helen meets Richard’s eyes directly, her intentions firm. “ _Everything._ ”

_Mr. Malfoy,_

_I invite you and your mother to tea next Tuesday, May 25th at 2o’clock to discuss recent events._

_Dr. Helen Granger_


	2. Cream Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco accepts the invitation. He is understandably nervous. Helen is not holding back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helen may seem harsh in this first meeting. Please note, there is a method to my madness. Right now, she is interested in unleashing some of her anger.

A week passes with no reply to Helen’s invitation. Richard gives her a _look_ when she brings up the slight. He shakes his head when she drafts another missive and sends it along with the eagle owl Aedelfrid, who is on loan while Harry is traveling abroad.

Another week passes. Helen decides being ignored is not a declination. It is simply a blatant insult, and she isn’t having it. Richard warns her that she needs not take this so personally. She replies that nothing is more personal than her daughter’s well-being. He sifts a hand through her hair, kisses her lips and breathes an, “Okay.” 

She waits till Hermione is not home, till the time is appropriate, to call Harry in Barcelona. He greets her as “Mrs. Granger” as he always does despite reminding him to call her, “Just Helen, dear.” They talk of his travels. She mentions he sounds happy. He tells her simply, “I am.” 

He asks after Hermione, and she is honest, “She’s doing better, but we had to move a cot in her room. Richard and I take turns sleeping there. She doesn’t like being left alone in the dark.” There is a stark silence then. Helen has already told him to never apologize again. There is nothing for him to apologize for. Hermione has always had her own mind, her own convictions, her own path. There was nothing Harry could have done to prevent . . . . _everything._

Countless moments later, she reveals why she called. He knows she is trying to contact the Malfoys, has discouraged the notion as best he can through the miles. She asks him what she could possibly do to convince them to meet with her aside from blind persistence. 

He pointedly asks her how far she is willing to go. She replies, “As far as you’re willing to help me.”

His sigh nearly convinces her to retract her words. The memory of her daughter’s silent sobbing and sweat-covered trembling body just last night stays her. Harry says he’ll check with some contacts. He tells her to keep trying, “If nothing else, it will piss him off.”

She sends seven more invitations, a new date on each, a week’s wait between, and the last with the post script, _I’m just getting started, and I don’t give up._

Three days later, she (finally) receives a reply by a ruffled and temperamental Aedelfrid. She coos at the bird, feeds her three treats for having to deal with an apparently difficult Malfoy and caresses the bird till it calms. 

The envelope is addressed to _Mrs. Granger_ , another slight considering she had signed off with her professional rather than marital title. Helen takes a deep breath, runs her fingers along the fine grain of the stationery then tears through it with a letter opener in one smooth transaction.

_Mrs. Granger,_

_I regret to inform you that my mother shall be forced to decline your most generous invitation. She is currently under house arrest and shall be similarly occupied another six months hence. She is, of course, thoroughly upset at the imposition and wishes to send you her warmest regards._

_Please accept my most humble apologies for the delay in replying to your original nine invitations. While I am not under house arrest, I am presently serving a probation in which the Ministry requires prior notice of any movement outside my home. I am pleased to report that I have been given an allowance to attend tea on the 7th at 2 o’clock._

_Please reply with your address as, in accordance with the requirements of my probation, I have been disallowed the privilege of apparating and will – of course – arrive via floo should you agree._

_Cordially,_

_Lord Draco Malfoy ___

On September seventh, Helen wakes with a preternatural focus that reminds her of the first few months in Australia. The feeling scares her just a little as she goes about her normal morning activities, sparing just a few more minutes in choosing her outfit, fixing her hair, dabbing on make up.

Richard laughs at her, asks if he should be worried that she wants to impress this young man. She scoffs before changing into something more casual, pulling her hair into a ponytail, scrubbing her face clean. She’s not in this to impress _anyone_.

Hermione is just off to her usual Tuesday meeting as Helen puts the kettle on and sets the table, her nerves buzzing unpleasantly. She breathes deeply, blows it out with middling force, alternately flexes and relaxes her fists. 

He arrives by Floo at exactly 2 o’clock, as they had agreed, visibly nervous, pulling at his collar and rolling his shoulders. Helen takes him in – tall, lean and muscular with a regal sort of bearing and a manicured appearance. The blond hair is just as Hermione described in her first letter, _like strands of molten moonlight_. His gray eyes are strangely empty. Helen remembers Ron mentioning he is a suspected Occlumens, skilled at compartmentalization to protect his mind. She wonders briefly why he would use that ability now . . . against a Muggle.

She smiles at him, welcomes him (even though she figures he’s probably thinking her house is shabby, wondering when her table linens were last laundered, thinking how plebian the décor, etc. etc.). “ _Lord_ Malfoy, thank you for accepting my invitation.”

He seems genuinely startled at her greeting before he remembers himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you properly, Mrs. Granger.” 

“Doctor.”

“My apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you, **Doctor** Granger.”

“You know, _Lord_ Malfoy, Iying to me will only make this meeting even more awkward. I would advise you to put aside your traditional means of communication for a more . . . authentic conversation.”

He seems to struggle with himself, his face paling slightly then breaking into red splotches of contained temper. “And when did I allegedly lie, madame?”

“When you said it’s a pleasure to meet me. We both know you don’t mean that.” She begins walking into the dining room, gesturing to him to follow. “To be quite _honest_ with you, _Lord_ Malfoy, meeting you is something of a necessary evil – not at all a pleasure. My one regret is that your parents are not fit to join us.”

He mumbles something she doesn’t quite catch then coughs and asks, “Will Granger . . . um, I mean Hermione be joining us?” She doesn’t tell him that Hermione does not know of this conference. Instead, “I’m rather interested in speaking to you alone at the moment.” Her eyes glance to where he stands awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other, eyes darting around the room and taking nothing in. “Please. Sit.” 

They each have a cup and saucer, napkin and spoon and tea knife. There’s a plate of scones and a dish of clotted cream in the middle of the small table topped with a Gryffindor red runner and lace table cloth. Helen’s smile has fallen away as she takes up the tea service and begins to pour for him – hers had been poured before he arrived.

“I hope Earl Grey is to your taste, _Lord_ Malfoy” He mumbles something in response and thanks her.

She watches him drink from the rim of her own steaming cup, smirks when he grimaces at the taste. “It’s instant.”

He nods like he understands. 

“And please, help yourself to the scones and cream.”

As if he is under some sort of compulsion, he takes a scone, applies a little cream. His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice. He licks visibly dry lips. His eyes remain on the lace. “I have to admit, I’m rather curious as to why you were so . . . enthusiastic about inviting me.”

She deliberately places both hands on the table. He mirrors her. “Perhaps ‘determined’ would be more appropriate than ‘enthusiastic’.” She sighs, straightens in her chair, “To be blunt, _Lord Malfoy_ , I wanted to take the measure of the boy who callously tormented my daughter for six years, nearly murdered two classmates AND your Head Master, released a small army of terrorists inside a school full of innocent children, then proceeded to stand and watch as my child – a long-time classmate - was tortured and permanently branded without lifting a finger to help her."

He sits, paling and silent and deathly still, eyes trained on the table’s edge, his scone half-eaten, the cream oozing and thin from the heat. She continues calmly, her words cadenced in such a way it’s like she’s reading from a script. Her hands are seemingly glued to the table. The feel of the lace and wood against her skin reminds her not to slap him. “Does it surprise you that I know of your exploits? Is it shocking to you that my daughter would reveal the prejudice and danger she faced daily – away from the protection of her parents?”

She waits for a reaction but he says nothing, doesn’t look her in the eyes. A sheen of sweat is breaking out upon his brow. “Let me assure you, _Lord_ Malfoy, I do understand that children do not always see eye to eye. I also understand that simple disagreement did not cause the protracted conflict between you and my daughter.”

Sipping her tea, she waits, clock ticking, until he starts squirming in his seat. She aims a wide-eyed look at him. “Is this subject making you uncomfortable, _Lord_ Malfoy?”

“Not at –”

“I certainly hope so.” She cut in, ruthless. “Tell me, _Lord_ Malfoy – in your own words - how, exactly, is it that my daughter and family are inferior to yours?”

Sweat is standing on his brow, the fingers poised around the handle of his teacup are shaking. It’s obvious to her just how unprepared he is. Somehow, this realization does nothing to assuage her temper. “I – I don’t think –”

She pushes away from the table slightly, a mocking look of awe on her face, “Truly? Well, that is certainly a shame. I had been led to believe that you were quite the clever young man – if misguided.”

“Mrs. Granger, please –”

Her expression turns frosty, “Doctor.”

He gulps audibly and tries to meet her eyes, “Doctor Granger, listen, I’m –”

“ **No**.” The word brooks no argument. Malfoy’s mouth shuts with an audible click. “I will not listen to excuses. I asked you a question, I expect an honest answer; and if all you have to offer is excuses, you and your family are more contemptible than I have anticipated.”

He inhales sharply through his nose, a quiet rage suddenly sparking, burning in his eyes. “You _will_ show the Malfoy family respect, Mu—"

The rage in him is nothing compared to the explosive fury in her. “ _Respect_? I’m not sure you know the meaning of the word. Allow me to enlighten you: a high or special regard; or to consider worthy of high regard.” She takes a deliberate, patient, _long_ sip of tea. “Of course, none of those meanings apply to me toward you or your family. I’m sure an _intelligent boy_ like you can understand why.”

Malfoy breaks, his gaze reflecting a strange hint of betrayal. He is stands suddenly, nearly throwing his cup and saucer to the ground with the movement. “No, I don’t fucking understand. You don’t even know me!”

There is an almost echoing clink as she places cup on saucer in the ensuing silence, her expression carefully blank. “You’re right, _Lord_ Malfoy. I don’t know you; but I know of your past actions. I’ve asked every person in the wizarding world I have access to. I’ve sent owls to get references on you. I’ve seen the transcript of your trial.” She pauses, watching him closely. “I’ve spoken with Hermione.”

She stands slowly - deliberate, purposeful - never breaking eye contact and never backing down. “I invited you here to see for myself if the fruits of your decisions have changed you at all. I’m disappointed to say you seem to remain a selfish entitled coward.”

Malfoy is shaking his head, jaw tense and a drop of blood visible on his lips. Finally, he averts his eyes. “I don’t need this shite from a fucking Muggle bint.” He nearly flings the chair out of the way as he stalks toward the fireplace, head held high though his shoulders are slightly slumped.

Helen tuts, seemingly unconcerned of his ire. “You _do_ need to hear it. If you keep thinking only of yourself, refusing to admit to accountability, and running away when things get tough, you will never move on and you will never earn the respect you think you so deserve.”

This time, his eyes are direct and flashing danger. “Fuck. OFF!”

Still very calm, Helen smiles. “Oh, I can’t do that, I’m afraid. I expect you’ll find time in your non-existent schedule to have tea again next week. In fact, I’ve devised an activity – homework, if you will – to keep you busy until then.” She produces a small book with a little yellow post-it affixed to the cover. He stares at them with a mixture of intrigue and distrust. “Look up the words on the note. I want an essay about how their denotation and connotation each applies to you and your family. We’ll discuss it next Thursday.”

He jerkily makes it to the fireplace, takes a handful of floo powder. His shoulders are set, and he refuses to look at or talk to her. _Stubborn_. She grins behind his back. “Unless you want to go to Azkaban of course. I’m sure Minister Shacklebolt will love to hear about your attitude.” The threat is an empty one, and she should feel badly about manipulating him; but she doesn’t. Not a wit. 

She makes a mental note to speak of this to her therapist.

He turns to her, a doleful expression on his face and rips the book from her grasp. Her smile is frozen on her mouth as he yells out the name of his home and is devoured in a flash of green flames.

Somehow, she knows he’ll be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Draco's pov. He can't resist a challenge. Helen rewards his efforts at civility with an outing.


	3. Interlude I:   A Spoonful of Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small interlude with Richard and Helen in the aftermath of Cream Tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to do interludes originally but this one here became necessary when I looked at how chapter 3 was going. Cheers!

Helen is ensconced on her bed, reading, when she smells her husband before he’s even fully up the stairs, the stench of him is so strong it proceeds him by several feet. As she moves to peek out the open doorway, she sees his shadow, pants rolled up to the knee, no shoes.

“Good Lord, Richie, what the devil is that stink?” 

He comes into view. His face and hair are gray with cement dust and some sort of liquid goo. “Had a bit of a plumbing incident. Just coming to get a shower.”

When she notices the black rings around the tops of his socks (the rest a pristine white), she laughs - a strange sound with her nose pinched – and resists the urge to hug him. “Were you sprayed in shit or something?”

He tries to make a gloomy face at her but a smile breaks through anyway. He’s always been a jovial sort. “Nothing so tawdry.” He gazes past her into the bedroom, sees the book lain open on the bed. “Everything okay, love?”

Still giggling, Helen leans more fully on the door frame, her fingers still pinching her nose, still grimacing because now she can _taste_ whatever he’s covered in. “I’m quietly hiding from Hermione. She’s in one of her organizing raves.”

Richard nods as he “aaahhh”s, “She’s most likely in the book room. I didn’t see or hear her when I came in through the back.”

Now, she resists the urge to kiss him. “I’ll make sure to check on her in a moment.” A beat and then, “You go on with your shower before this smell seeps into the walls.”

His eyes fairly glitter at her, and she wonders (not for the first time) if Hermione’s magic came solely from him. “And then . . . . . ?”

She sighs and tries to hide a grin. “And then I’ll tell you how the tea went.”

He steps away toward the bathroom before turning back to her and waggling his goo’ed eyebrows. “Or you can join me in the shower and tell me now.”

Laughing even harder, she swats (and misses) at him before edging out of the room toward the stairs. “Not while you’re all disgusting but maybe . . . _later_.” 

He shoots her an exaggerated wink. “ _Later_.”

Later comes with the extracting Hermione from reorganizing the kitchen, the making and eating of dinner, and calling an early night. 

As Helen and Richard gather themselves to leave their daughter in the company of the telly or a book (most likely a book), Hermione tells them she’ll be going out to lunch with Neville and Luna tomorrow. 

Inside, Helen fairly explodes with relief. Hermione hasn’t seen her friends in such a long time – more self-imposed exile than actual business. . She asks if they will be patronizing in Muggle London or Diagon, and Hermione answers blithely – unaware of her mother’s racing heart, “Muggle, I should think.” Helen’s heart drops, just a little. Outwardly, she merely smiles and pats Hermione’s shoulder with a “That’s lovely, dear” and “Good night and sweet dreams, love.”

Helen is barely inside their bedroom when Richard shuts the door. 

“It’s _later_.” He growls. She subdues a blush.

“Well spotted.” Deep breath. “Is _that_ your idea of ‘bedroom eyes’? It's a wonder you've ever managed to seduce me.” His expression more resembles someone straining on the toilet, all intense and blood shot.

He laughs and pulls her to the bed. “Since we are obviously not having sex, I want to know about the big secret you’re keeping from our daughter.”

Indignant, she scoffs, “I am not keeping secrets from anyone; but I don’t think Hermione is ready to hear or accept my non-existent nefarious plans.”

He props his chin on her stomach, brown eyes intent and watchful, when she lies back on the mattress. “Tell me.”

So she tells him. She tells him of her impressions, “Skittish . . . a bit somber. He was guarding his mind as if I could see into it. There was a definite tilt of defiance to him beneath the mask of politeness he seemed to put forth at first.” She tells him everything that was said. She tells him, “He’s definitely a handsome bugger. I can see how Hermione may have mistakenly thought highly of him at first glance; however, his temper tantrum certainly proves he has a long way to go before he’s worthy of her good opinion.”

During the telling, Helen loses eye contact with her husband, her gaze naturally traveling over the ceiling to the tripping shadows of the ceiling fan paddles to the far wall. When her eyes return to his, she’s a little surprised to find the reflection of disappointment.

“Of course he lost his temper. You invited the boy to tea, Helen. Then you put him on trial with you acting judge, jury, and executioner.” He sighs and rubs his cheek along her cotton night shirt. “And then you didn’t let him get a word in to defend himself.”

She doesn’t like the grating feeling that he’s right. “I have the right to be angry, Richard. He bullied her nearly to death.”

“I never said you didn’t, but that young man has only just reached his majority and he’s already been through hell the way Hermione tells it. He’s also already sat a trial for his actions – a trial Hermione testified to his favor in. He is already _paying_ for those actions. You have the right to be angry. You do not; however, have the right to punish him further for the actions of others.”

Covering her face with both hands, she breathes. In and out. In and out. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

He sifts, sitting up to look down at her. “You could have invited Jared, Lucas, Chloe, Elizabeth, Jenny, Taylor, or Sophie at any time all these years, but you decided to invite _just him_.”

She removes her hands, gazes up into his face, her expression frozen into a snarl. “He’s the only one who’s ever made her cry.”

His eyes never harden. They remain soft, gentle. Comforting. Even as he answers, “You don’t have the right to make him pay for _Hermione’s_ mistakes either.”

She watches him in the dim light for long moments, his words ricocheting through her body like a bullet. Closing her eyes, she doesn’t notice the tears escaping down her cheeks. “I’ll try to be better next time. I’ll . . . “

“You said you wanted to understand everything. To do that, you have to give him a chance.” His lips are warm against her skin. “If he decides to meet with you again, do you think you can do that?”

She kisses him back, her hands beginning to weave through his hair. “Yes.”

“Fantastic. Is it later, now?”

Her heart is laughing before she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Draco's pov. He can't resist a challenge. Helen rewards his efforts at civility with an outing (fer realz this time!)


	4. Strawberry Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco meets with Helen again. The big things are shelved for the moment. Things are more civil this time around as Draco struggles with his new found conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me being all dedicated and updating during a hurricane/tropical storm ^_^

Draco rages for the rest of the day after the disastrous tea with fucking _Doctor_ Granger. First, he throws the book with the strange square of bright yellow parchment across the room (the Muggle sticking charm holds true). Then he proceeds to destroy practically everything else – tearing down curtains and tapestries, scoring the bed clothes, swiping books and figurines and glass baubles from his shelves, and shatters the antique full-length mirror - feeling indignant and attacked and hateful. Spent and finally numbingly empty, he leaves the mess and orders the house elves away from the room for three days.

When he isn’t sleeping in one of the guest rooms, he spends that time staring morosely into the library’s cold fireplace obsessively going over everything _Doctor_ Granger did and said from the moment she sent her mockery of an _invitation_. His mother largely leaves him to his own devices, only summoning him for meals which he declines repeatedly.

When he feels more stable and returns to his daily routines, he goes to his room and starts cleaning up the mess he has made – by hand because he has all the time in the world and not enough activities to keep his mind occupied. 

As Draco works – starting at the door and resolving to clean and organize methodically in a clockwise fashion, he thinks back again to the encounter and muses that he now knows where Granger gets her most irritating personality traits from. 

The bossy tone of the invitation; the fucking _harassment_ of repeated missives when he decided not to respond; the way she insisted on being called by her worthless Muggle title; and then the moment he stepped through the floo and saw the meager set of cream and scones. The bitch hadn’t even had the decency to offer anything to tame or sweeten his tea, forcing him to accept and swallow the bitter drink or appear rude. 

Every move she had made was a distinct and _successful_ power play down to the pristine white table cloth and Gryffindor red runner. Even the seeming submission of having her call him by _his_ new title was delivered with blatant mockery. 

And while he had anticipated the meeting to be difficult at best, he had not been prepared for the barrage of verbal attacks and complete character assassination. He starts thinking about the points Doctor Granger made, how she dressed him down but never raised her voice or threatened him even while eviscerating him. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he finds himself feeling a smidgeon of respect for her (an echo of the regard he secretly holds for the daughter) because even with the limitations put on his magic during probation, he is still a wizard and she is still a muggle; and if he is completely honest with himself, for just a moment, she had scared him in a way he had never been frightened of Voldemort. 

The fear she inspires wasn’t based on the promise of violence or death, but the fear of disappointing someone who could – maybe – see to the very heart of him. 

And she had seen him, hadn’t she? What had she said? “ _I’m disappointed to say you seem to remain a selfish entitled coward.”_

He closes eyes against the echo of judgement he had read in her eyes, a different color than Granger’s but the same shape, the same characteristic intelligence. Those words had hurt more than the previous smothering accusations. Because he _knows_ he was a selfish entitled coward – for the vast majority of his life; and – yes, he had fallen back on those old failings when confronted so forcefully, but . . . 

With clenched fists, he picks up the little book with the strange sticky bit of yellow parchment. Three words are emblazoned in neat bright blue print – all capitals: 

SACRIFICE

COURAGE

MERCY

He sighs. If he had a time turner, he would go back in time and never accept Doctor Granger’s invitation. He would simply destroy each and every missive sent until she tired or showed up on his doorstep. At which point he would most likely have served his term to completion and once more be able to lay down a hex or five.

The nerve of this muggle woman, giving him ‘homework.’ He opens the little book beneath the note and finds that it is a muggle ‘pocket dictionary.’ The size is convenient as he flips through the thin, bleach white pages with a single thumb. 

Smirking to himself, he waves his wand to bring his desk to order in a matter of seconds, sits and takes up quill and parchment, jots down the rote definitions of the words. 

Minutes later he is at the owlery and sending the message with his personal owl, a lovely short-eared owl named Guinevere, to the muggle harridan. 

She sends the note back with a succinct, _Try again_ , scrawled across the bottom margin.

He scoffs and determines to ignore the command yet finds himself staring at the three words for what seems like hours. He puts the note in his pocket and walks around with it for two days straight, taking it out to read it sometimes, reciting the meanings and wondering how they apply to him, to his parents – particularly his mother as he’s not sure how he feels about his father nowadays.

It’s not as if he has anything else to do. And when he isn’t staring at that note or the dictionary, Doctor Granger’s words are rolling around in his head, over and over again, along with the memory of her face as she said, “ _If you keep thinking only of yourself, refusing to admit to accountability, and running away when things get tough, you will never move on and you will never earn the respect you think you so deserve.”_

One did not survive the Dark Lord and a house full of Death Eaters without learning the subtle nuances of hatred. Dr. Granger had been angry that day at tea. She had been infuriated and pained and – somehow – disappointed, but not once had she looked at him with malice or hatred. 

This woman . . . one of the many people he had wronged again and again (secondarily really, but still) though he’d never met her, had every reason to despise him. Yet, she didn’t. Not the way he had hated her and her daughter without reason. 

He could admit that now. All the xenophobic propaganda, every allegation against muggles and those of “impure” blood, each promise of superiority and power – _utter and total lies._

He had tried to tell her that before she interrupted him. He had tried to tell her that while he still had a long way to go, he bears muggles, muggle-borns and half-bloods no ill will. 

He has seen enough the damage such small-minded pursuits could reap. However, without counter-examples – even now – he knows this new benevolence is stymied in action. After all, even with his father in Azkaban, the people who still associate with him are similarly selfish entitled cowards. This transformation he has willfully undertaken will take time – possibly the rest of his life.

So, feeling he has something to prove, he writes the essay Doctor Granger has assigned like the proficient student he had always been, but it’s less about how the words apply to him and his family and more about how they have reaped the benefits of these virtues in others. 

Her return owl merely reminds him of their – apparently - scheduled Thursday afternoon tea together, and he reluctantly but dutifully goes through the motions of notifying the Ministry.

Thursday comes and he floos over, even more nervous than the first time and on guard for further attack. Doctor Granger has an inscrutable look on her face as she welcomes him, “It’s good to see you again, Lord Malfoy” – a bit more pleasantly this time, her voice soft but firm - and leads him to the table. Her tea is already made again, and she wastes no time pouring his then, shockingly - preparing it the way he likes: no cream, a teaspoon of honey and a twist of lemon. 

He wonders how she knew even as he mutters a barely there, “Thank you” and pulls her seat for her. She smiles at him – a real one - then seats himself. 

This time, in addition to scones and cream, there are fresh strawberries – red and plump and _inviting_. He feels something in his stomach unknot and loosen. Dr. Granger serves herself, a scone with a large dollop of cream. He takes some of the strawberries, also with cream.

Neither speaks for awhile, Doctor Granger contemplates him with a blank face while he avoids her stare by watching the shadows play on the lace table cloth and Gryffindor red table runner. 

“Why did you come back?” Her tone is inquisitive rather than accusatory which makes him feel a little more at ease. He takes a casual sip of his tea. The quality is . . . . leaves a lot to be desired but it goes down easier than last time.

“I wasn’t going to,” because he has sworn to himself that, if he (doubtfully) survived the war, he would never take orders from anyone ever again. He also isn’t going to open himself to answer her, not yet. “Did you read my essay?”

She smirks. “Of course.”

Before he can filter himself, “What did you think? Did I pass whatever test you had in mind?” He tries to modulate his voice to cover up his annoyance. Is he still so starved for approval he would look for it here? Lucius’ sneering face flashes in his mind.

Draco suddenly has the urge to punch something. He drops his hands to his lap as a precaution.

Doctor Granger makes a show of biting into her scone, chewing carefully and thoroughly, swallowing. “You’re not really interested in what I think; but, I have to point out, you didn’t actually fulfill the assignment as specified.” Her she pauses to sip her tea. “Still, I enjoyed the perspective, your penmanship is nothing short of breathtaking. You pass with flying colors.” He tries to resist the flowing warmth that falls over him at the praise, feeling an unwanted subtle pride when she shoots a pleased sort of smile from across the table. “In fact, I think you deserve a little reward for showing that you actually _are_ capable of listening to your elders, muggle or no.”

Considering he still has no idea what she is expecting or looking for from him, he can’t help but feel a little zing of pleasure at earning a reward – whatever it is, a counterpoint to the mild offense that she would doubt his manners. 

Lucius would vomit. Draco rubs his now sweating palms along the tailored material of his pants.

Then again, if Granger is the source of what this woman knows of him the opinion is more than warranted . . . 

Feeling deflated and itchy, he spears a strawberry with a little more force than is warranted, the scrape of metal on porcelain grates his ears. “Fear of authority was never a problem for me.”

Here eyes narrow and he suddenly knows he has walked into something. “Perhaps. Perhaps the fear of consequences is what you were missing.”

He savors the sweet tanginess of strawberry juice breaking over his tongue as he chews the fruit and ponders the virtue of silence. “You mentioned something about a reward?”

She huffs a laugh, amused and the look transforms her face into something more approachable, pleasant, motherly. He has the surreal realization that this is what Granger will probably look like in 30 odd years. “Let’s finish our tea and then we’ll discuss it.” It’s as close to a declaration of truce as he will most likely get.

Silence stretches out between them for a bit, broken only by the clinking of silverware on porcelain, the occasional sigh (his) and a barely there whisper of a slurp (hers). 

Finally, she places her cup on the accompanying saucer and looks him square. “I sent your mother some books. Did she receive them? I haven’t had the pleasure of her reply.”

Malfoy, mid sip, suddenly chokes and only his good breeding stops him from spraying tea and saliva all over Dr. Granger’s table and face. Pressing his fist into his chest, he coughs for long moments, his throat straining, face flushed and eyes burning, teary. “She . . . huh, sh –“ He swallows, breathes deeply through his nose and wills the muscles of his esophagus to relax. “Pardon me. She was very . . . . . _intrigued._ ” And then, as an afterthought, “Thank you, madame.”

Honestly, the moment his mother saw Muggle parenting books in the house, she had gone into a tizzy and ranted – in her understated yet still austere way – about _the nerve_ and _doesn’t that awful muggle nobody know who I am_ and _as if I would read such worthless trifles_ and _I don’t need muggles to tell me how to raise my son!_ and _why on Earth would anyone think failure is a **gift**_?

He had expected her to wandlessly incendio the stack of glossy parchment and wax bound books without hesitation; but he knew she had kept them and built a secret home for them near her bed. Whether she is actually reading them or not is a mystery (though he did hear her muttering at times about him and being out of time or something like that. 

When he glances at Doctor Granger again, she’s watching him with a strange expression on her face. Her features are gentle, a small smile curving her lips just enough to bring a small crinkle to the corners of her eyes . . . eyes so like Granger’s – in spirit and shape if not in color, beaming a certain positive regard.

And he isn’t sure what to do with it or how to feel; because a muggle’s opinion of him shouldn’t matter.

_But it does._

“You can be honest with me Lord Malfoy. I think you know by now that I will be nothing but honest with you, no matter how harsh the truth or my opinion may be.” Her hands – thin fingered, nimble and strong (so unlike his mother’s untried hands) – begin to gather the serving dishes. “Though, I do thank you for attempting such a diplomatic answer. It is quite decent of you.” 

He sits, watching as she stacks pastry trays and saucers and teacups then walks them – with measured steps – to a silvery basin with a long spout; sees her roll up shirt sleeves then grab a sponge and soap; and marvels at the bustle and simplicity of the washing, feeling a little helpless, a little clueless and (he doesn’t want to admit) _curious_. Because, the fact is, he’s never really questioned where everything goes when a meal is cleared – at home, at Hogwarts – dishes and food appear then (without signal or warning) disappear when the eating is done; and though he knows intellectually house elves are responsible for the gathering and cleaning, he’s never actually seen the labor that goes into something so . . . . . vital to the civil society he loves so much.

_And muggles do this every day, every meal._

He’s not sure if the realization fills him with revulsion, gratitude for the luxury of house elves or admiration of a life so industrious.

“I believe I owe you an apology, Lord Malfoy. My husband pointed out to me that I may have been a little . . . harsh with you at our initial meeting. I’m sorry for any discomfort I may have caused you after inviting you into my home.” Her shirtsleeves are getting damp. Soap bubbles cover her forearms.

He swallows, feeling more uncomfortable at her apology than he did at her ire. “You have the right to be angry with me, my family, and our associates.” Of this, he is absolutely certain. Of this, he has attempted in his own way - through helping in the reconstruction of Hogwarts, pouring thousands of galleons in charity, and opening Malfoy and Black properties to house orphans and those left destitute by the war – to make amends.

_It will never be enough._

She glances at him over her shoulder. “That’s exactly what I said to my husband!” She takes up the tea kettle and busses it with her sponge. “But I should have allowed you a fair say to defend yourself.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. He’s not sure if he agrees. The guilt has lain heavy on him since the summer before sixth year when his longtime dream of becoming a Death Eater came true and reality turned out to be an unending nightmare, so different than the glory he had imagined; and nothing he has done since it’s been over has alleviated that guilt.

“Now, are you ready for your reward, Lord Malfoy?” She’s makes quick work of the dishes and looks back at him now, a towel decorated with sunflowers in her hands. 

He nods, wanting to fiddle with his fingers and flexing his hands at his sides repeatedly instead, nervousness bubbling through his limbs. It’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation. “Will Grang— _Hermione_ be joining us?”

As she walks toward him, collecting her purse from a side table (it is only then he notices the boxes stacked up in the next room, the bare walls and lack of décor), Doctor Granger gives him a look so focused it – again - reminds him of the first time he saw her, believing her to somehow be capable of casting Legilimency. “No. She’s not home at the moment.”

He follows her with only a _slight_ measure of suspicion, wand in hand, then remembers that muggles either walk everywhere or rely on mechanisms with wheels to get places, tucks the well-loved Hawthorne into his jacket. He’s never really seen the outside of Granger’s house and as they make the egress, he’s overcome with the homey brown brick and blue trim – flower boxes and trees, bright cement sidewalks and street, the lined up nearly identical houses on either side – each with a different monstrosity he assumes are ‘cars’ - and the laughter of children playing nearby. 

Doctor Granger doesn’t pause, just marches down the lane with purpose, looking back only once to reprimand, “Don’t dawdle, dear. Keep up.”

It doesn’t escape his notice the endearment she names him. (He’s not sure if he likes it but doesn’t correct her.)

They walk nearly one kilometer by his estimation, following a white picket fence until it breaks and ends, the sidewalk now lined by intermittent red-painted cement stakes about the width of two adult hands lain together side by side.

Behind this barrier is a foreign sort of park sporting strange metal sculptures and other apparatuses designed for childish entertainments if the population of the space is anything to go by. Doctor Granger enters the park space as Draco hesitantly follows.

She takes a seat on one of the many benches then gazes up at him and orders, “Go play.”

He stares at her, incredulous. “I beg your pardon.”

With a pinched face, her hands flutter toward the playground where approximately twelve children of varying ages frolic, climb, run, and scream around, under, and atop . . . everything. There’s even a pit filled with sand where two very young tots repeatedly scoop and dump the stuff. Another uses his bare hands and – horrifically – eats it.

Taking a moment to calm the sprint of his heart, he rubs the sweat from his palms and regards the older woman accompanying him as she – in a quintessentially _Granger_ move – removes a book from her purse. “Are you trying to humiliate me?”

The words are plaintive rather than accusatory, hollow and brittle. He represses the heavy weight of disappointment, pushing it down into his gut then ignoring it. He shouldn’t be surprised anymore, the abuses of adults. 

Doctor Granger squints up at him above her reading glasses and speaks slowly. “How is a lovely day at the park in any way humiliating, Lord Malfoy?”

“I’m an adult man not a child.” The words are a low hiss between his teeth.

“And I’m a post-menopausal woman with an adult child. I still come here to swing and play with the kids on the jungle gym. What’s your point, Lord Malfoy?”

“I can’t just - - - It’s thoroughly inappropriate!” And undignified and degrading and _utterly beneath a Malfoy_. Something catches in the vicinity of his sternum.

They glare into each other’s faces, a stalemate, before Doctor Granger sighs, releasing the tension that had grown visible in her shoulders. “You carry yourself as someone three times your age, dear. I thought, perhaps, you would appreciate a bit of free fun.” She sighs again, capitulating, “Do you have any objections to people watching?”

“No.” Let it never be said that Draco Malfoy could not compromise. 

Wordlessly, she pats the spot beside her, indicating he should sit, as she adjusts her glasses then takes up her book again. They sit in . . . weirdly comfortable silence though after several minutes he’s pooling with sweat beneath his black dress shirt, black jacket and – equally – black slacks. Apparently, this fall would be unseasonably warm. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, letting his mind go comfortably blank for the first time in a long time.

They don’t talk. He takes in the crisp air, the slight breeze, the heat and the perfectly normal sounds of people walking and talking and playing and fussing. He watches the children and their parents and the odd pedestrian. No one seems to notice him. The anonymity is an unexpected relief as the handful of times he’s ventured out into the Wizarding world at large has been met with a variety of reactions – none of them notably positive, some of them downright antagonistic, all of them a shade of hostile.

An hour passes. There are fewer people in and around the park. Doctor Granger is absorbed in her book when Draco moves to stand. There are trees all around – old and new. It suddenly strikes him that he once enjoyed climbing trees, and he hasn’t really been allowed or able to engage in the activity since fourth year. 

Well . . . his father isn’t here now to tell him it’s unbecoming of a young man. His mother isn’t here to tell him it’s too dangerous. No teachers to disapprove. He chooses a tree that is tall with an array of identifiable hand and food holds and walks up to it, glances back at Doctor Granger. She is watching him with an encouraging smile.

Running a hand through his hair, he looks down at his dragon-hide dress shoes. Not the ideal footwear for this, but they will simply have to do. 

He’s chuckling to himself – deprecatingly – as he strips off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, unmindful (for once) of the Dark Mark scarred on his left arm. Muggles would just see an ugly tattoo not sworn allegiance to a psychotic monster. He rolls his shoulders, his neck, stretches till he feels strong and limber . . . an echo of that old confidence as he looks up into the spread of branches and leaves above. He’s not going to stop till he gets to the top.

Then, he climbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering where hellcat!Helen went, she's coming back. If you're wondering why the narrative was so confused, blame Draco. If you're wondering when we get Hermione's POV, it's gonna happen - most likely in an interlude. If you're wondering if Mr. Granger is gonna meet Draco, yes. Yes he is. And it's gonna be AWESOME.
> 
> That all being said, Next chapter: We have a bit of time skip (not a big one). Helen brings up the elephant(s) in the room. Draco opens up - just a wee bit. Some progress is made though toward what both parties still aren't sure.


	5. Light Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen brings Draco to the movies. They have a very serious conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me SO MANY PROBLEMS but I persisted and here it is. Also, I had originally wanted a second conversation between Draco and Helen to happen on the way home as well as some extra interaction with a visiting Harry and Mr. Granger but I ultimately decided that my goal had been met with it ending where it does. Also, the other stuff is in no way pivotal to the story and I TRY not to be Extra. 
> 
> If you're wondering about the timeline, we are currently in the year 1999. Mrs. Granger sent the first invitation in May - after the one year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Their last tea was in September - before Hermione's 20th birthday. In this chapter we are in December.
> 
> Another little note, I'm a foster mom as well as a bio mom. There is nothing more satisfying than when a troubled child learns to trust you.

It is a gloomy December morning with a slow snowfall that is more wet than cold and less white than grey. Helen nurses a coffee while partaking of a hot cake breakfast and Richie reads the paper while gulping down a glass of orange juice. Hermione is busying herself with gathering her own abandoned breakfast dishes.

When she returns from depositing them in the kitchen, she sits and taps the table nervously, her entire body seeming to fiddle and squirm. “Mum, Dad . . . I have a favor to ask.” 

Helen calmly places her loaded fork on her plate while the rustle of the newsprint reveals Richie’s expression of interest.

With her parents’ attention, Hermione continues, “During this week’s meetings Dr. Ufuoma wanted to cover . . . what I did to you. We agreed that it might be beneficial to have you attend those sessions. If you want . . . I mean, you don’t have to . . . I know it’s an inconvenience and I just –“

“Of course, love. We would be happy to attend. Shall we go altogether?” Richie glances at Helen who nods placidly. Hermione doesn’t know but Dr. Ufuoma has already approached them about this.

Hermione appears visibly relieved, as if she had believed momentarily they would refuse. The possibility births a sharp pain in Helen’s chest. “I think it would be best if one of you came with on Tuesday and the other on Thursday.”

Knowing Helen has a tea scheduled with the young Malfoy on Tuesday, Richie smiles and reaches out to take Hermione’s hand. He gives no indication he can feel the damp and subtle tremble of her fingers, “I can attend Tuesday. Helen will accompany you on Thursday.”

Hermione smiles widely and averts her eyes. “Wonderful. I’ll just let Dr. Ufuoma know, shall I?”

They watch as she walks away and listen to her foot falls on the stairs. Helen sighs and picks up her fork. “Thank you for covering for me, darling.”

Richie merely grins, “Couldn’t ruin your date, now could I?”

She rolls her eyes, suppressing a smile. He’s been calling them “dates” since she and Draco had silently established a standing appointment for tea at least once a week every Tuesday and – sometimes – an additional on Thursday. 

Since their second tea together, she has gotten to know a few things about her daughter’s former tormentor. She knows how he takes his tea; that he prefers fresh fruit to baked goods; his favorite color was yellow at one time but is now red (despite the grief he always gives about her table runner); that he likes to climb trees and fly broomsticks so fast his vision blurs into passing streaks; that his favorite dessert is apple tart; that he’s allergic to bee stings; that he loves his mother unconditionally and has a complicated relationship with his narcissistic father; that he doesn’t know what to do with himself once his probation is over; that he hates being vulnerable and feeling powerless; and that he’s plagued by a guilty conscience (not that he ever came out and said it). 

She also knows that the boy is wound tighter than a two Euro watch and sincerely hopes she isn’t around when he cracks.

Still, it continues to surprise her how much they have in common, how she sees so much of her younger self in him, how _protective_ she is becoming, how she almost _likes_ the oversized brat. She has told Richie on more than one occasion – when Draco is especially unguarded and mentions something about his father – how, if given the chance to have a sit down with Lucius Malfoy, she is going to give him a knife sharp piece of her mind before giving him a taste of her fist.

For all of that, they still haven’t broached the neon pink elephants between them, and she means to shine the spotlight and end the silence – at least in part – at their next tea outing, tomorrow.

“You are entirely too blasé about your wife going on “dates” with a notably handsome younger man.” She scrapes the last of her hot cakes and honey from porcelain and hums as she stands. 

Richie takes a large bit of his buttered toast, speaking around it rudely. “I’ve heard confidence and trust are attractive in a spouse.”

“You’re not wrong.” She kisses his hair as she leans down to gather the rest of the breakfast dishes. 

“Will you be having tea at the house or going on an outing?”

“I was thinking the cinema if I can convince Draco. That boy is more guarded than the Crown jewels.” She begins washing dishes as her husband approaches to stand next to her, dry towel in his hands. 

“If he’s so stressed, could he have bruxism, do you think?” 

“He _does_ clench quite often, but I can’t be sure about the grinding without actually looking into his mouth . . . which I strongly doubt he would allow.” Helen pauses for a long moment, her hands absently scrubbing while she contemplates the drapeless kitchen window. “Maybe I can get him in the office one of these days, just to make sure there’s no gum recession.”

Richie bumps her hip with his before shooting her a wolfish grin. “I love it when you talk dental to me.”

She smacks him in the arm, leaving a wet hand print on his blue pajamas. “He does have a lovely set.” 

He laughs and flicks the tip of her nose. “I want to meet him, Helen.”

Snorting, she splashes him. “I don’t think he’s ready to deal with your ridiculous optimism and general congeniality.”

Richie shuffles to press his side against hers, humming. “Trying to keep your side-bloke to yourself, are you?”

“Why would I want a tall, blond, fit Adonis when I have you, my love?” They share a heated, besotted smile, leaning into one another, noses brushing softly when . . . 

“Are you two being insufferably romantic _again_?” Hermione is leaning against the counter a few feet from her father, arms crossed over her chest.

Helen bites her lip nervously, wondering what – if anything – Hermione has overheard, as Richie shoots their daughter a grin calmly taking up another dish to dry. “Such questions are beneath you, love. Your mother and I are _always_ insufferably romantic.”

Helen, relieved, nods seriously, “One day, Hermione dear, you will fall madly, passionately in love; and then you will be _even more_ insufferably romantic than your father and me.”

Hermione’s expression turns pained for just a moment before she forces a smile and shakes her head, “I don’t think so, mum.”

Helen tuts, choosing to let it go _this time_. “It would be a shame if – in the future – I have to say ‘I told you so’ _twice_.”

The younger rolls her eyes above a pursed grin. “It’s my turn to cook dinner tonight. How does shepherd’s pie sound?”

“Fantastic, darling.” Richie spares a moment to ruffle Hermione’s bed head. “Are you still going visit the Weasley’s this afternoon?”

“Yes. Harry will be apparating in around noon to accompany me.”

Helen focuses on washing: the force of pruning fingers biting into soiled porcelain, soap bubbles and hot cascading water, the scent of manufactured lemon, the itch and cool of sweat damping her hair, the breath blowing through her nose to pull back in, and the accelerating beat of her heart. “That sounds lovely, dear.”

***

Half three Tuesday finds Helen sitting next to Draco in an old theatre beneath dim lighting and surrounded by the cloying scent of buttered popcorn and old hotdogs. Their winter coats and scarves are laying on a third seat (Helen’s on the bottom because Draco could not bear the thought of his clothes touching the torn up pleather upholstery). 

As they settle in, soaking up the warmth of the building, Draco sits, rigid and closed while Helen is – admittedly – a little distracted. 

Hermione’s time at the Burrow yesterday had ended in an early return (her beautiful girl bursting through the fireplace like a lethal green fireball), anger crackling off her in near visible electricity and chaotic hair. She had locked herself in her room until it was time to prepare dinner – which was done in complete seething silence. All entreaties to talk were outright refused or ignored.

In her seat, Helen sighs into her soda, wishing she could have fit a tea service in her purse even as she empties it of assorted recycled containers filled with tea cakes, biscuits, clotted cream, lemon curd, scones, fresh strawberries and apple slices.

“So we just sit here and pictures – moving pictures – appear on that big canvas over there?” Draco’s features are twisted as if he’s just sucked on a lemon – a rotting one.

Helen passes him the biscuits. “Yes. This one is actually an animated film.” His eyebrows are drawn low as he tests the lid unsuccessfully. She rips it from his hands and tears it open. “That is, the pictures that will be on screen are all drawn by someone and painted.” Handing the pastry filled plastic tub back, she tells him, “There’s clotted cream and lemon curd just here.”

The look he shoots her is just this side of flaying. “I see that.” He leans on an arm rest only to straighten and glare at it and his sleeve. “Do they not ever _clean_ this place?”

Helen gives a long-suffering sigh. “ _Lord_ Malfoy, perhaps you would not feel the need to complain so much if you would _lower your impossibly high expectations_ to something reasonable.”

His glare is scathing. She stares right back, unimpressed. “My standards are perfectly reasonable.” He scoffs. “And this is the first time I’ve complained today. I didn’t even say anything when you nearly mowed over that ruddy cat with that monstrosity of a Foad.”

“It’s _Ford_. And your standards are ridiculous. I understand you’re bloody wealthy and you’re accustomed to demanding the best of the best; however, that is not the way the world-at-large works. The rest of us take note of all the options presented and choose the one we can accept as being satisfactory.”

Draco is silent for long moments, staring at the large white screen before them. She can practically hear him thinking. Finally, he opens his mouth, “So what is this feln . . . filk . . . _film_ about?”

For the second time in as many days, Helen decides to shelve a conversation. “A fawn called Bambi.”

Draco’s head snaps so fast she worries he’s injured his neck. She can feel the heat of his gaze, and it takes every ounce of self-control to keep her face blank and staring straight ahead. 

_“What?”_

“Trust me, dear, it’s a classic. You won’t be disappointed.” She shifts the smaller uncovered bowl of cream to his lap and fishes through her purse. “You might need this.” She doesn’t tell him she watches this movie when she needs a good cry but places a travel pack of tissues in his hand as he watches her warily. “Just have an open mind, okay?” 

He sighs, resigned, and pockets the tissues. “Very well.”

It’s the most she can hope for, she supposes. 

They are largely alone, a scattering of seven others bobble beneath them while four other conversations whisper among them. Helen swallows heavily, braces herself and opens, “When Hermione first received her letter from Hogwarts and the impossibility of witches and wizards became our new normal, all I could think was all the negative things: poison apples, cursed spinning wheels, witch hunts and burning at the stake, demon worship and arcane rituals in the woods. Richard could see me descending into paranoia and told me to try to find the potential positives instead.” 

She shakes her head slowly even as she registers the weight of Draco’s attention, his silence. “In trying to find the good things, I imagine I fell into the same mental trap pureblood supremacist types do. I thought wizards must be better, stronger, wiser for all the power they have been gifted with . . . somehow, they had to be moral and enlightened.”

Draco snorts gracelessly while Helen muses, _Too many literary and cinematic influences_ , makes a mental note to show him _Spiderman_ and _Lord of the Rings_ one day. She chances a glance at Draco. His face is frozen in a bare sort of expression, his gray eyes shadowed and dark. Unreadable. 

She continues, “Hermione’s actions toward us during the war also revealed her own lack of faith in our strength as parents and – ultimately – muggles. I still struggle with that realization more than two years after the fact.”

Draco’s face is scrunched up adorably, questioning, “What exactly did Grang – _Hermione_ do to you?” And then, almost an afterthought, “If you don’t mind telling me.”

Helen angles her face to the lights above, letting the fluorescent burn imprint on her retinas. “She took our memories – _obliviated_ us.” It aches to think of it; but speaking it _shatters_. “Gave us new identities and implanted the idea of moving to Australia too. We moved . . . left her here to fight alone, an orphan.”

The seemingly endless, writhing pit of anger and hurt in her gut is a ball of fire stirring beneath her breast bone. She clenches her teeth against the promise of bile, barely noticing Draco straightening to angle his body toward her.

“She did the right thing.” He winces, as if he’s realized, too late, it’s a horrible thing to say.

Because she hasn’t invited his judgement. She won’t, not when he is part of the reason it happened, not when she doesn’t want to know if those actions meant the difference between life and death. She’s simply not ready to have that confirmation or conversation. _That_ hurdle will have to be dealt with day after next. 

Silently, she wonders if this is the segue she’s been waiting for and decides that maybe she doesn’t need a segue. Maybe she should just be out with it. So, she braces herself to passive, holds on to the fetters of her emotions, and modulates her voice into something dulcet and gentle. “I just want to understand . . . Did you know? Hermione considered you one of her first magical friends – you and Neville, and she was so very excited to get to know you. You filled her letters for those first few weeks and we were delighted she seemed to be getting on with someone with similar academic interests.” Helen takes a moment to decide how far she wants to take this. “She was always so . . . advanced that other children simply didn’t know how to relate to her.”

She inhales deeply and frowns into Draco’s face. “I can only assume your interest dwindled because you learned of her muggle background.”

He remains silent, his eyes raised but not quite meeting hers. She notes the movement of his Adam’s apple, the flex of his jaw muscles, the tension of hands on knees. “I want to know, was it difficult? I need to understand how it is to initially like someone and suddenly dislike them like that,” she snaps her fingers for emphasis, “because of something beyond anyone’s control. I have to hear how it felt to make that decision, not only to treat her friendship like rubbish but to choose to hate her – literally _wish her dead_ – for no good reason.”

Watching him, Helen notes the rigidity of his posture, the stress in the lines of his body, and waits to hear him yell at her to fuck off again. But he says nothing, every sign indicating his first instinct is to defend himself physically rather than verbally, and she tries not to fall into a reactive state of mind. 

Silently, he hands her the biscuits and cream, his knee bouncing as the rest of his form fairly vibrates, the heat of whatever explosive emotion riding his muscles rolls down his skin. His hands come up to muss his hair. His torso folds and elbows catch at his thighs. He’s making himself as small as possible in the cramped, awkward space of a theatre folding chair.

As the lights fade out, she can still see his hair clearly as if it is somehow glow-in-the-dark, his lingering fingers, dark bands marring the pristine white. She studies the fall of shadows across his back even as the screen illuminates and he is bathed pale. Light and airy orchestral music begins streaming through the air and the Disney logo dances across the screen. 

Helen can only see Draco struggle with himself, can almost hear him picking and choosing the words he wants to say while protecting the secrets that make him vulnerable. He’s doubled over for so long, she becomes concerned he may vomit; and just when she’s about to place a hand on his back and ask if he’s feeling sick, he raises up, sweat glistening off his face in the shifting light of the movie screen.

Licking his lips, his head turns to look at her and she imagines his eyes are like mirrors as a burst of brightness uncovers the shadows. His mouth is a hard line and his hair is crazy from sweaty, running fingers, the strands reaching into his eyes. To her, he appears as a man contemplating the wisdom of jumping off a cliff. 

He visibly swallows. Once. Twice. She waits patiently as he aims his gaze downward before meeting her eyes directly; and when he speaks, his voice is loose and guttural, strained and audible above the saturation of a movie soundtrack.

“I _hated_ Voldemort. I _hate_ my father.” He wipes the sweat from his brow, sieves his hair from his face. “I was fucking _ecstatic_ when Longbottom massacred that fucking snake.” His eyes are intense and pale, almost manic. “I _never_ hated Granger.”

Helen closes her eyes and exhales, something thick and thorny in her gut releasing and receding. “Okay. Okay.” She glances back at him and gives a shaky smile, offering the container of apple slices. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything after that, his focus seemingly on the movie. 

They watch as Bambi slips on ice, makes his first friends, loses his mother. When the gun goes off, when the death is realized, Draco’s hand finds her wrist at the armrest between them; and she glances at it, unseeing for countless seconds.

It’s the first time he’s ever reached out to her in any aspect, and the gesture fills her with a feeling of maternal warmth that reminds of her the first time Hermione held her hand without being directed to or when Hermione seeks her out to be held after a bad day. It’s the feeling of being someone’s safe place, of being accepted and judged trustworthy.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until an embroidered handkerchief is thrust under her nose; and when she turns to thank him, she must push down the urge to giggle when she finds him dabbing his eyes as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Another interlude! Mr. Granger meets Draco. Draco meets Mr. Granger. (I'm gonna post a warning in the beginning notes for the next chapter but I wanted to make a preliminary warning here. This chapter is going to be HEAVY and may have some triggers for people touched by depression, suicide, and child loss).


	6. Interlude II:   Lemon Curd and Apple Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Helen go to therapy together. Draco meets Mr. Granger. Mr. Granger meets Draco. There is LOTS of crying.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: anxiety/panic disorders, PTSD, nightmares, mentions of narcissistic parents, mentions of past alcoholism, mentions of past (unintentional) suicide attempt, mentions of mental illness/psychosis, mention of (perceived) child loss, TRAUMA all around.
> 
> Recommended Mood music: Change by Poets of the Fall

__

_** Hermione **_

Hermione sits in a waiting room that pretends to be inviting, her eyes staring at a strategically placed dusted-over silk flower bouquet while her leg twitches restlessly and her thumbnail scratches at her cuticles. Her mother is a warm mass of flesh and make up in the next chair over, an equally soothing and dangerous presence. 

She hadn’t always been a mess. She can remember feeling normal . . . calm. _Herself_.

With the clarity of hindsight, she knows – intellectually – that she’s been in a semi-detached state of constant stress and instinct since – at least – fourth year, accelerating into full blown single-minded survival mode as the war began. 

The war’s end had filled with Hermione with equal parts relief, grief, and – strangely – dread. All of a sudden she didn’t have any answers – she didn’t even have questions. For the last seven years, her friends had looked to her to just know everything – what was coming, what needed to be done, how to organize and prepare, and Get. Things. Done. To. WIN. 

Once the winning was accomplished, the world was laid at her feet along with a future she wasn’t sure she was properly equipped for. 

Burying all of her uncertainty, she had thrown herself into helping in rebuilding efforts, burying the dead, making appearances, and checking in frequently with Harry, Ron, the Weasleys and her other surviving friends. 

Eventually, despite an overloaded schedule, she began to feel a primal sort of restlessness. Ron and Harry had come to feel similarly; however, their solutions to the deep sense of displacement were markedly different. Harry decided to travel wherever the wind took him (leaving a disgruntled but understanding Ginny behind). Ron . . . well, his style of coping would come to bear later. Hermione – neglecting to tell anyone – went back to her parents’ home, fixed the extensive damage Death Eaters had wrought, then slipped away to Australia to undo the memory spell she had cast upon them over a year before.

Returning with her parents had been unexpectedly awkward which only added to the deep well of wrongness reaching to the core of her. Though it wasn’t until Ron had suggested an outing to Diagon Alley that the true extent of PTSD had hit her. 

She had flatly refused to go. When he insisted, she had begun screaming and throwing punches. She wasn’t going back, he couldn’t make her go back. She. Would. Not. Leave. Her. Parents.

The nightmares – a fixture in her life for years – had morphed into something so terrifying she couldn’t wake up under her own power. They were chaotic, increasingly violent and horrific, mind twisting, and lucid. Worse, she started sleep walking - her parents found her on several occasions rifling through the kitchen knives, packing random things into her bottomless bag, and digging a large hole in the back yard.

It was the digging in her sleep that prompted her parents into insisting she get help from her mother’s (magical) therapist because after the eleventh time finding her, soiled and working on that hole, they collectively realized she was digging a grave. Hermione was almost certain it was supposed to be her own.

In the midst of all of this, Hermione was also dealing with other worries and symptoms. She was terrified that her role in the war had defined her so thoroughly, her existence held no further value to the people closest to her: Ron and Harry. 

Her relationship with Ron was already complicated by the question of _Could we be more?_ Her hopes for the future had been – disastrously and singly - built on the answer to that question; then Ronald had destroyed that fragile anticipation by abandoning them when they needed each other the most. The kiss below the school had been a good-bye of sorts: Good-bye to those dreams of being part of his family in an official capacity, good-bye to the ginger-haired children dancing beyond her mind’s eye, good-bye to growing old together. 

Unfortunately, he had not understood the farewell gesture and no sooner had the work on Hogwarts been (mostly) complete and the last victim of war been buried than Ron was pressuring her to define their new relationship. He didn’t want to wait to live anymore. He wanted to move forward and – in his mind – that meant getting married and starting a family.

Knowing she was barely hanging on to sanity, she refused and – needing an escape from his angry tirades and insulting remarks in the days that followed – she had left the wizarding world behind. 

Harry, in contrast, had assured her in his easy way that she was his sister and though he planned to leave for a bit, to test this new freedom and see just how big the world is, he promised to stay in touch. He had kissed her forehead and hugged her for long moments. It wasn’t until she felt his fingers on her cheeks that she realized she was crying. It wasn’t until they parted and he took off his glasses for a moment that she realized he was too.

Neither of them had expected to live. Harry almost _didn’t_. She had embraced him tightly again, grasping the scruff of his shirt when she felt the tremors running through his frame. They both whimpered and sobbed for long moments, swaying back and forth in the Ministry hallway without care or censure. At one point, she gasped, “I’m so glad I met you Harry.”

Harry’s teeth caught on her hair as he said, “I love you, Hermione.”

And she had pretended she was okay with him going away for an indeterminable amount of time. She had tried to convince herself that she could function without the reassurance of seeing him at the Gryffindor table in the morning or in the common room or on the Quidditch pitch or in the tent or in the bedroom down the hall. She had been watching out for him so long, she didn’t know what to do with herself now that she didn’t have to anymore.

So she had taken the time to find her parents and bring them home; and eventually, she started seeing Dr. Ufuoma – a 55 year old muggle born witch from South Africa that worked with both muggle and wizarding clients – including Hermione’s own mother.

By the time of her first session, Hermione was having panic attacks from just being left alone – day or night. She needed someone – a warm body – to be with her at all times; and her parents had moved a cot into her room (though on extremely bad nights, one of them would crawl into the bed with her). Her one tried and true passion and comfort – books – had been rendered ineffective as her thoughts were little more than suspended leaves in constant flux and her focus was so completely destroyed that when she did try to read, the words would disintegrate in a meaningless jumble of letters that teased and taunted till the violence just under her skin crackled with live magic.

It was another reason she didn’t like going out – even into her muggle neighborhood – by herself. She was on constant guard, forever vigilant (Moody would be so proud) to the point of outright (and dangerous) paranoia and agoraphobia. There was not a building or vehicle Hermione did not have at least four escape routes planned for and double the number of contingency plans in case of emergency.

She is contemplating an escape just now when the sound of a door opening jolts her into full awareness, brown eyes darting to the older woman next to her, gauging an appropriate reaction. Her mother smiles at her reassuringly even as Dr. Ufuoma – tall, dark, and beautiful with sparkling eyes, a broad nose and bold mouth - appears at the doorway, two file folders framed by gripping hands and resting arms, “Please come in ladies. Let’s do some good work today.”

Gathering her fragmented Gryffindor bravery, Hermione stands and makes it to the door before her mother even gets out of the chair.

__

_** Draco **_

He stumbles from the fire place, dusty and barely breathing. His lungs feel as if he has inhaled flaming cinders, between coughing and sucking in oxygen and combusting. His eyes are straining against the tension of his neck and face and chest. He bends, hands on knees and mouth full of saliva, ready for wretching. His entire body is a mass of sweat and cold, trembling. 

It feels like imminent death – like the unwanted assault of Voldemort’s embrace, like being tied to train tracks and watching the Hogwarts Express approach, like standing frozen as a Dementor gets in his face and opens its maw, like the expectation to --

He swallows back on the vomit that floods into his mouth. It comes in burning and scorches on the way back down. He can smell the sick in his nose and ineffectually roughs his hand across his face. 

Breathing is slightly easier though his eyes are watering against a subtle tingle and burn. The shaking of his limbs makes coordination difficult, but he manages through determination and pride to straighten, one hand coming up to grip the mantle. 

_Granger’s house again._ The thought comes with a numbing, apathetic sort of awareness. His presence in this particular building at this particular moment with – potentially – the particular sort of people his father would think unworthy of existence doesn’t seem to strike with any particular disturbance. He is simply here quite content having a protracted panic attack and asphyxiating in his prior victim’s main room, thank you very much. 

Tremors are still raging through his fingers as he presses palms into his wet eyes and tries to understand his own actions while trying NOT to remember Doctor Granger’s accusation that he always runs away from difficulties. (That train of thought had been running through his mind enough lately as he begins to take stock in himself, his beliefs and motives and actions – both past and present – only to conclude he is _beyond fucked up_ and _he knows absolutely nothing about anything_.)

The light click and airy whine of a door opening somewhere nearby sounds and then a man’s voice, “Hello? Did someone just floo in?” A pause. Draco hears music and a woman’s voice talking fast and loose about something called a vack-yum cleaner? “Harry? Or is it Arthur? (Maybe I just imagined . . . )” The shuffling shush of shoes rubbing against a mat then footsteps on tile, coming closer and closer. 

Draco swallows and wonders if he has time to leave the way he came. His hands push into his hair almost violently, sweaty palms catching onto sweat damp strands. The time to decide closes and he is suddenly facing Granger’s father.

It can be no one else. While Granger bears a cursory resemblance to her mother (similar face shape, same nose, comparable height and body type), she shares her father’s features, hair texture and color, eyes and mouth. They tilt their heads the same way when on the cusp of asking a question. It is evident they are likewise adept working with their hands - the wrists, palms and digits articulate to the fingertips. They both plant their feet widely with confidence when meeting someone. 

“Well, hello there. We weren’t expecting you, Lord Malfoy. The Misses and Hermione aren’t home at the moment, I’m afraid.” 

Draco’s mouth is suddenly slack. Mr. . . . Doctor? Granger is tall, dressed in denims and a rather primitive looking jumper, wiping his dirty hands on a flannel as soiled and fragrant as he is. He can feel his top lip begin to curl into a sneer and bites down on his bottom lip hard, turning to a grimace. 

Now would not be opportune to fall into old habits. Yes, the muggle is visibly dirty, but anyone can become so while working. It doesn’t mean he is _filthy_ (and what does that mean anyway?); it doesn’t mean he is spreading some sort of ill-defined disease (it isn’t as if he can take away Draco’s magic); and Draco knows – he _knows_ , this one _true_ thing – this man’s blood, non-magical though it may be – runs as red as his. He’s seen it with his own eyes from the daughter. 

Granger’s father holds out his hands and the muddy flannel, smiling self-deprecatingly, “I’m Richard Granger and I would shake your hand but I doubt you want motor oil on your fine clothes.”

Something fragile inside Draco breaks with the realization that this – the color of this muggle’s blood - is the _only thing_ he knows with an absolute sort of certainty. Everything else . . . he just . . . . He doesn’t know what he actually knows or thinks or feels about ANYTHING. Including himself. His father always made those decisions for him – his knowledge and opinion was his father’s knowledge and opinion. He wasn’t _allowed_ to deviate.

Draco shudders uncontrollably as he continues having an existential crisis and Mr. / Doctor Granger watches in obvious concern. Father isn’t here now . . . Father can’t tell Draco what information to believe, how to think or what to feel about his own experiences. He’s free to see the world through his own two eyes, make his own decisions.

Seemingly undaunted by Draco’s rude silence, Mr. Granger turns halfway back the way he came and invites, “You’re welcome to stay, of course, if you don’t mind more masculine company.”

If Draco could talk to his father right now, he would most likely rail at him for talking to muggles in the first place, for repeatedly and willfully visiting their home, for drinking their inferior “instant” tea and partaking their – no doubt – mediocre sweets. His father would want him to reject such an undeserved invitation, just turn around and floo back home where he feels trapped and drowning. 

Swallowing, Draco makes a decision and meets Mr. Granger’s eyes directly. “I would like to stay, thank you, Mr. Granger.” Lucius is probably breaking out in hives. “And, please call me Draco.” Possibly having a heart attack.

It’s so strange, to see a look of delight on someone’s face and know he put it there (while also knowing the same action would cause his father shame and disappointment). “Well then, Draco my boy, just follow me to the garage. I’ve been restoring a 1970 Chevy Nova so it’s a bit cramped. Right now I’m changing the oil in Helen’s car which is why I’m unpresentable at the moment. Mind your robes – wouldn’t want to get motor oil or grease on them. Nasty stuff. Hermione’s a whiz at getting the stains out if you have a need.” Then, as if he realizes his faux pas, he laughs and shakes his head at Draco.

But Draco can barely hear the man’s prattling over the rush of wonder in his ears. What he sees as he steps into the “garage” mystifies and stirs up an overwhelming wave of curiosity. It occurs to him then – this is what Granger felt the first time she encountered the wizarding world. And . . . she never lost that sense of wonder. Even when he and others treated her as something worse than a second class citizen. Even when less was expected of her because she was muggle born. Even when the magic she so loved and respected was turned against her in the worst, most violent ways, Hermione Granger _appreciated it._

He tries to remember the last time he’s ever felt touched by anything . . . if there was even a last time. His throat feels full and heavy suddenly. Even as he circles about, taking in the “garage”.

The space is cold but enclosed with three blank whitish walls and a fourth that . . . opens to the outside ( _That’s why it’s so cold in here_ , he shivers) around Doctor Granger’s car (which seems to be undergoing some sort of dissection – cracked open with innards exposed) and something that vaguely resembles a car but is only a metal frame with some more metal (twisted and tarnished and confusing) suspended between. 

On the other side, a smallish box sits with a thin metal grate and glowing red bars emitting heat, perhaps to burn unsuspecting wizards or gnomes? No, that can’t be right, it’s too cold outside for gnomes to be wandering about. The warmth produced is useless for the cold air rushing in from the open/missing wall. 

All of this in addition to various types of shelving and hanging things, all manner of primitive devices that appear designed to torture. Near his hip two (additional) large boxes – with circular windows at the front and a panel of knobs and buttons – sit, hissing and rumbling, also apparently made for torture. 

Lucius always did warn him that these muggles are barbaric brutes not fit for civil discourse. The fact that Draco is not at all afraid (surprised, curious, intrigued, vaguely disgusted but not afraid) makes him wonder if his experience under Voldemort and the Inner Circle have desensitized him to the point of perceiving muggle barbarism as somehow acceptable. Or if he’s just understanding reality through a clear lens for once. (He’s not as unsettled as he would have imagined that the second theory seems to ring with more truth). 

And yet, there is also the rhythmic beat and harmonic sounds of music trailing through the air softly. He’s never heard the song before, a man singing about someone named Jude who needs to make it better (Draco can relate). Draco follows his ear to the strange looking wireless, wondering at the nobs, the shiny thin horn, and numbered panel running across the thing.

Mr. Granger swaggers to the car and rolls a wheeled board from beneath it with one foot. The soiled flannel he had wiped his hands on is summarily stuffed into the back pocket of his equally soiled denims. “Now, Draco, my boy, want to tell me what brings you to this neck of the muggle world?”

It’s not the casual way Mr. Granger addresses him that has his guard up, but the bid to share. The panic that had spurred him into the floo traces into his fingertips and crawls along his skin, an aftershock. His jaw flexes painfully for all the pressure on his teeth. He wants to say something, it’s just there, the words damming at the opening of his airway; but he’s not at ease here, in this particular moment – no matter the tacit understanding that no one in this house will harm him, no one in this house has impossible expectations for him, no one is seeking to impose their will over his. No one is holding his mother’s life over his head.

This is a safe place. Possibly safer than even Hogwarts had been. 

It’s sobering to think that his own home could not boast such a thing even now.

The tightness of his throat increases till it becomes hard to breathe. He wheezes for one exhale, two. Swallows against the lump there. “My mother . . . she wants me to visit my father.”

__

_** Helen **_

They have barely begun their joint session and Helen’s face is already wet. Dr. Ufuoma starts by urging their chairs to face one another, so close knees brush, and asking after their present general feelings. 

Helen chokes and stutters as her throat tightens and her hands reach out to clasp Hermione’s cold, trembling fingers. She’s so, so proud . . . has always been proud from the first moment . . . since she’s loved Hermione. _And I’ve loved you more than anyone or anything since you made a home beneath my heart._

It pours out: how hard it was to watch her baby girl go to school so far away because even though she was confident Hermione could handle herself, this was someplace Hermione had to walk without their guidance or knowledge. There was a literal barrier against them crossing into that world and so when Hermione was at school, they had to make peace with the reality that they wouldn’t see or talk to her for long periods of time, except by letter – and, later, floo (as if Hermione was an inmate instead of student). They had to trust that the experienced staff would keep her safe, nurture her, care for her. 

In the intervening years, commiserating with the Weasleys while transferring Hermione didn’t really help (nor did the yearly “incidents” Dumbledore made them aware of (she shuddered to think of what he _didn’t_ tell them)) because they were a magical family and couldn’t truly understand the bittersweet predicament Helen and Richard found themselves in. 

She stutters to Hermione how they discussed – multiple times – of pulling Hermione out of Hogwarts, fearing Hermione would be dead before graduation (and how right they nearly were). 

Breath becomes difficult and Hermione frames Helen’s face with shaking hands. Blurred as her vision is, Helen can see the shine of tears in Hermione’s own flushed, tear-stained face. Her heart feels as if it is a battering ram slamming against her ribs. But she tells her daughter, “We knew how integral being a witch is to you, to your identity . . . I . . . We couldn’t take that away. I couldn’t be like –“ _my mother_. “We couldn’t make that decision without including you.” Which they eventually did, just after Dumbledore’s burial and before Hermione cast the obliviate spell. 

It’s a connection that has haunted Helen since her memory was returned. Would Hermione have chosen such an extreme spell had they NOT brought up taking her out of Hogwarts? Was the magic world that much more valuable to her? Did she think taking her out of Hogwarts meant forcing her to say goodbye to the magical world-at-large? Helen swallows thickly, wipes her nose with a tissue. Two boxes – one for each of them- standing nearby. “I’ve wanted to ask . . . . did you obliviate us because of that discussion? Or was it something you had planned?”

Dr. Ufuoma makes a tutting noise. Helen subsides, understanding she used accusatory language. Apologizing, she makes to ask the question in a more passive way but Hermione is already speaking, swearing the obliviation was not some twisted form of punishment for wanting to protect her from some very real and questionable magical circumstances that – frankly, by some miracle – she had managed to survive. 

Rather, the move was one she had researched in case of necessity. It was meant only as a last resort. Voldemort was on the move and they _knew_ it. They knew he had infiltrated the Ministry and it was only a matter of time before he put some sort of plan in action – to get to Harry, to put Death Eaters in power against muggles, muggle borns, half-bloods, and every other group he detested. 

All this, and every day it seemed the papers – both magical and muggle – reported attacks on the families of muggle borns. Hermione didn’t have time to come up with alternative options. She felt she had to act NOW or risk their lives. 

Helen argues, “You could have talked to us! We would have listened. We could have helped you come up with something else.” _We didn’t have to forget you to be safe. You shouldn’t have taken that choice from us._

“If there had been another way, I would have found it, I promise. I had been planning for _years_ , mum. Ever since Harry was in the Triwizard Tournament and Voldemort returned to life. I . . . I knew this was the only way.”

“So what you’re saying is that you would have obliviated us with or without our knowledge or consent?” Helen blinks rapidly against the disbelief she feels. Who is this ruthless person sitting before her? Why is she wearing the face of her daughter?

Hermione’s mouth is a hard line in spite of the swell of her cheeks and wet shadows beneath her eyes. “It was the safest option.” 

Tamping down the temptation of temper, Helen purses her own lips, sniffing, “A bit of an overstretch, don’t you think? I refuse to believe that someone as brilliant as you would be so stubbornly absolute about this.” Then, softer, with fingertips wiping watery eyes. “It’s not that I’m not grateful, Hermione; I understand Voldemort and his followers were a very real threat. I’m happy and honored that you love us so much that you sacrificed – essentially – a part of yourself to protect us; but I don’t and can’t agree with your methods.” Because . . . because – how can she not use accusatory language? _Because your actions denied me agency and will over my own life and body; because your intentions usurped my role and privilege as a mother meant to protect her young._

Their hands are still entwined, she can feel Hermione’s nails press into the fleshy part of her palm. Hermione’s bottom lip tribbles slightly before her eyes harden. Helen recognizes the look. Her daughter wants to dig in her heels and defend until the end; however, a concession is about to be made, one that her baby girl doesn’t necessarily want to give. 

“If . . . if I had talked to you before – even if you had consented – you might have fought against the spell which can have long-lasting side-effects such as psychosis.” Hermione closes her eyes as something visibly releases in her posture. “That being said, I . . . I maybe . . . Maybe I should have consulted you and Dad first. And maybe I could have come up with an alternative plan had I researched more.” Brown eyes open and pin Helen, surrounded by paling skin. “But it’s all past and done and I can never take back what I’ve done. What . . . what I need to know right now is if you can ever forgive me, Mummy.”

__

_** Richard **_

Richard doesn’t believe in first impressions. Sometimes people are having a bad day and can’t put their best foot forward. If he had believed in them, he and Helen would have never made it through their first meeting let alone a first date.

His first impression of Draco Malfoy – he knows – is complicated by all he has heard before. Hermione’s first mentions of him in letters were complimentary but fell to a record of an unfounded superiority complex, bully tactics, xenophobia and active participation in Voldemort’s army. More recently, Helen’s feedback is . . . mixed. The boy isn’t the demon-child they had imagined, but he isn’t entirely pleasant either (though improving, that’s what Helen says, always improving).

None of this is at the forefront of his mind when he sees the young man for the first time. It’s obvious the new Lord Malfoy is not capable of much beyond the most basic civility, the boy is so clearly stressed beyond his breaking point. There is a subtle glow about his face (sweat) which is pale as death and his eyes – storm cloud gray with pinpricks for pupils – are frantically darting about, looking for an escape (he thinks). 

While his daughter’s enemy comes through the house, following him into the garage, there is a subtle calming. Black clad shoulders subside from ear level, the tight jaw loosens enough for him to speak a few words without grinding his teeth, his pupils open to a more natural dilation. Clenched fists relax to a relaxed fall alongside his equally black clad outer thighs. (Richard thinks it would be bad form to ask the lad why he insists on dressing like an undertaker, though it doesn’t stop him from wondering.)

He can’t shake the feeling of deja vu even as Draco turns from reticent to overwhelmingly pleasant, if a little formal. Something is warring inside that boy, Richard is sure of it. He is also fairly certain Draco is not the sort to open up to strangers or even friends. Again, that sense of familiarity. This kid is so much like Helen was when they first met – guarded, defensive, closed off, and quick to anger . . . inwardly fearful, in flux and out of control.

Gently, he offers an ear then leaves it at that, tacitly allowing Draco a choice to talk, be silent, or steer the conversation elsewhere.

Sometimes, that’s all someone needs to feel in control when the world becomes an ocean of drowning stimuli. Just one choice that’s solely _yours_.

The silence stretches and Draco seems far away so Richard continues as if nothing is amiss. He’s just about to swivel his head and shoulders beneath Helen’s car to drain the old oil when Draco mutters, . “My mother . . . she wants me to visit my father.”

His first impulse is to comfort, but stops before he starts. That sort of response will only drive this kid away, and Richard isn’t sure that’s what needs to happen here. Blithely, he slides under the car, it’s easier to concentrate on the appropriate reply while staring into predictable auto innards.

“That doesn’t sound too unreasonable. By your reluctance, I take it you and your father aren’t very close.”

Something clinks then clangs above him before a long pause and then, Draco’s growling, “ _Lucius_ is a cold, controlling, uncompromising, and manipulative bastard who only cares for himself.”

Mouth ticking up just a bit, Richard focuses on loosening the proper nut, a container just there, and grunts, “You should ask Helen about _Henrietta_.”

An incredulous snort, then, “Who?”

“Helen’s mother.”

There is the radio playing an advert then the deejays talking about caller seventeen and winning free tickets to some band Richard has never heard of. On top of that is the shuffling of Draco’s feet, the soles of his (no doubt) expensive magical shoes scruffing the odd segments of loose gravel. Near his head, oil is draining into the white container he had set there. He rolls out, widening his feet and sitting up.

Draco has a perplexed expression on his face, studying the contents of a nearby toolbox.

Richard smiles easily, “Want some advice?” By asking and not freely offering, he is – again – giving the boy a choice. He can reject or accept or escape. Draco’s attention transfers to him and his face reflects that choice in such a way that Richard figures the ball is not often thrown into Draco’s court. 

Draco’s eyes are suddenly like a wall, a blank granite wall, “Are you going to tell me to go.” Though the words are predicated in question, the delivery sounds more a statement of fact. 

Richard makes a show of checking under the car then speaks without looking at the other man, “Actually, I was going to advise you to do nothing.” Draco is suddenly looking at him as if he were a nutter. “You obviously don’t want to go, but you want to please your mother; so, don’t make a decision yet. Tell your mother that you need to think on it. Don’t commit to anything, but give yourself time to think about what YOU want and what’s best for YOU.”

The blond man’s eyes fall to the floor between them, appearing bewildered and lost. “I don’t know what I want.”

Richard has the sense this is the most honest Draco’s ever been with _himself_ let alone a stranger. Then again, sometimes it is easier to face oneself with a stranger to witness than a loved one with preconceived ideas. “That’s the beauty of being of majority, Draco. You can take all the time and opportunity in the world to figure it out.”

When it seems as if Draco has retreated into deep thought, glaring balefully into the toolbox, Richard rolls back – head and shoulders – under the car, sets about emptying oil from the filter into a drain pan. 

The minutes tick as the radio plays, soft white noise that barely covers the sound of a snowball fight commencing just beyond the garage door. Richard is about to offer to fetch hot chocolate when Draco’s voice drawls a gruff but curious, “What – exactly – are you doing?”

Drip pan in place, Richard feels safe sliding out into open air again, grinning up at his unexpected guest, “Would you like to learn about cars, Draco my boy?”

Amusement bubbles just beneath the surface as Richard watches Draco shoving his pale hands in pockets, aimlessly looking about the garage again, accounting for every stain on Richard’s clothes and skin, then opening his mouth to reply. . . 

__

_** Hermione (reprise) **_

The session is almost over. Hermione knows this because the Doctor praises them for the “good work” they’ve accomplished; both have cried so much that Helen’s make up has completely washed away; and Hermione is feeling lighter, utterly relieved, and oh so grateful for . . . everything. 

Her mother had forgiven her the moment she remembered Hermione. Her mother _forgave_ her.

These months since finding her parents in Australia and restoring their memories, she has felt an undercurrent of distance between her and Helen. It is so subtle, so insidious, Hermione has half-convinced herself it is all in her mind; after all, there is no such feeling with her father.

But Helen confirms that – yes- there are things that bother her about the obliviation but they are “Monica” things that Hermione need not concern herself about. Of course, the suggestion of letting it go only makes Hermione more determined to find out what these “Monica” things entail and if they are anything like her father’s “Wendell” things.

She braces herself mentally before speaking softly, her voice wrecked with tears. “Mum, I need to discuss one more thing with you and then I’ll drop it forever; but . . . I need you to be completely honest with me.” 

When Helen tentatively agrees, her hazel eyes shining with love and trepidation in equal measure. 

Hermione tries to smile reassuringly though her heart feels as if it is quivering erratically in her chest – unsure if she’s prepared for this. She tells Helen that during the previous session – with her father – Richard revealed that Wendell became an alcoholic. He told her that moving to Australia had not been the happy move they expected. 

Wendell felt – constantly – as if something pivotal was missing though he could never figure out what he was looking for no matter how many times he searched the house, picking each room through down to testing all the floorboards for any that might be loose and hiding something. Empty chairs at the dinner table caused irrational anger; sometimes he thought he could hear a young girl’s laughter coming from the extra bedroom; and he would find himself buying the same books over and over again with the intent to give them to . . . someone who wasn’t there. 

Her father had told her how he had despised the empty second bedroom to the point he – briefly – contemplated arson. He felt like he was going crazy. The turn to drink began with longer hours at work and walking the long way home. He started stopping at a pub near the office for a single drink which became “a few” then “a few more” until he was getting sloshed regularly, soon self-medicating during the day too. 

“Was it the same for you, Mum? Did you . . . struggle?” Hermione is fighting to be diplomatic, rational, . . .calm; but it’s difficult when the air between them is so full. Her dad has already inferred that Helen/Monica experienced something similar though he was reticent in exposing the severity. _That’s something you’ll have to discuss with your mother, he had chastised, and if she refuses to talk about it, you’ll have to respect her privacy._

Helen shoots a sharp glance at Hermione, asks if she can get up. The Doctor tells her that if she needs to move, she’s more than welcome to do so. She seems to grow agitated – pacing the floor at first then walking around the room in quick strides that make Hermione’s nerves fire. Then, Helen escalates – still silent, her silk shirt darkening in patches with sweat that is reflected on her face, beading down her cheeks and temples. She punches a tower of cushions stacked up in the corner then collapses to her haunches in a dark corner, hiding her face as she sobs freely, loudly (the sound very nearly bestial), shaking her head back and forth in misery. 

Hermione doesn’t realize her own tears even as her body shakes in response to her mother’s pain. She moves to get up with reaching hands; but Dr. Ufuoma pushes her – gently – back to sitting, smiling down on her sadly and whispering, “Give her a moment.” The clock says they have fifteen minutes left, every ticking second punctuated by her mother’s cries like a shock to her own abused and bleeding heart.

It’s two minutes to the end of the session when her mother returns to her seat – eyes glassy and face pale, legs shaking so badly she can barely walk straight and arms hanging from her shoulders like limp noodles. Hermione wants to hold Helen’s hands again and say, “Don’t worry about it. I don’t have to know.” However, the shame and inalterable pain darkening her mother’s hazel eyes stops her. She _does_ **have** to know. She doesn’t think their relationship will survive if the story isn’t shared and draped between them.

Still, no matter how much she _needs_ to know, Hermione also doesn’t want her mother to suffer needlessly. There has been enough suffering. All around. “Mummy . . . you don’t have to answer if –”

“Monica . . . Monica didn’t have a child.” Her mother takes her hand gingerly, _searchingly_ , caressing lightly from wrist to fingertips and tracing the lines of her palm. Helen grants a tremulous smile to spite the shadowed, puffy eyes and trembling chin. She pats her lap with a free hand, a gesture Hermione hasn’t seen since before Hogwarts. 

Feeling a deep pit open in her gut and more tears clog up her vocal cords, Hermione shifts forward, arranging herself to sitting on Helen’s lap. It’s cramped and somewhat uncomfortable but . . . they both need this closeness from each other right now. Their arms are around each other, Hermione’s hands tracing her mother’s jawline, sifting through loose tendrils of dark hair. It reminds her of when she was little and she would wrap herself around Helen when she would inexplicably cry at an advert on the telly or get angry at a photo or song or hyperventilate when confronted with a certain breakfast dish. 

Again, Hermione murmurs that Helen doesn’t have to say anything if it hurts her this much. 

But Helen shakes her head and murmurs back, “I could never deny you anything and you’ve asked me to be honest. “ She frames Hermione’s in hands, so close to hers all Hermione can see is a field of shining green and brown and black. “I’m just scared you’ll think I’m . . . defective after all is said and done.”

Hermione assures her that just as she knows her mother loves her unconditionally, the same is reciprocal.

Helen nods, uncharacteristically shy and tentative, grasping at Hermione’s sleeves as if the clothes and the body in them are her anchor. 

“Monica didn’t have a child . . .” she tries again, her voice thin and reedy, sometimes flitting lost to a whisper, “but her body . . . my body remembered carrying you.” She wets her lips and tightens her hold on Hermione. “Monica had a house with a second bedroom that she and her husband Wendell insisted they needed even though they had no friends or family from England that would visit. They had a second bedroom that they never decorated or furnished. Almost from the moment she arrived and settled in Australia, Monica felt something wasn’t quite right. She would search the house at odd hours and sit by the open window waiting for owls to come out. She would look at her naked body in the mirror for hours . . . absolutely certain that she was supposed to look . . . different. Her tummy was too flat . . . the skin too flawless. Even her breasts seemed wrong; and she didn’t understand why.”

A sense of foreboding grips Hermione as her mother struggles for words for a few moments. She suddenly knows this is much worse than her father’s confessed alcoholism and it occurs to her to wonder if – even though she _needs_ to know, does she _want_ to know. 

Helen hugs Hermione closer, burying her face in Hermione’s neck. “It became an obsession. Sometimes . . . sometimes she thought she heard a baby’s cry from the empty second bedroom. Sometimes she passed it thinking it should have a window seat surrounded by bookshelves. That feeling of something missing didn’t go away, no matter how many times she tore apart the house or how many hours she spent watching her reflection and studying her body.”

Her mother shudders a breath hot against her ear before continuing hoarsely, “Monica stopped going to work while her husband spent more hours there. She didn’t know her husband was going through something similar, didn’t know he had turned to drink. This . . . . insanity went on for months until one night, Monica was alone, again looking at her body in the mirror when she became convinced she had a baby and it was lost or someone took it and then she thought that maybe that’s what was wrong with her body. Maybe the baby had become trapped and she needed to rescue it so Monica went downstairs and took a knife from the block and carved into her lower abdomen until her uterus ruptured. Wendell arrived just in time to get help before she bled out.”

They are both sniffling, tears and snot running down their faces as they paw, shakily at each other. Hermione whimpers as she realizes the implications of her mother’s story. “I’m so sorry, Mummy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Helen shushes her, kisses all over her face and hair and insists, “It’s not your fault, baby. You couldn’t have known, and I was the one who wielded the knife.”

Later - after Hermione speaks with the Doctor alone to re-center and go over the rules of engagement post joint session, after they have washed their faces in the loo, after they have braved the snow and cold to return home, Hermione finds her mother in the master bedroom lying on the bed, shoulders quaking amid silent sobs.

She quietly crawls onto the bed and spoons her mother and just holds her, not saying anything. The rule is, they don’t talk about what happens in therapy outside of therapy. She just wants Helen to know she’s there, that she loves her and that they can heal.

Helen’s hand folds over Hermione’s before a whisper, “Once she was physically sound again, Monica was entered into an institution involuntarily for five weeks.”

She buries her face in her mother’s hair, presses more firmly into her back, takes in her scent and the exact feel of her warmth. Her voice wavers as she begins crying again. “I’m glad Monica is gone.”

Helen gives a watery giggle, “I'm so glad you made it out of that war alive, baby. I'm so glad you came back for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus H. Christ. Okay, I meant for this to come out a LOT sooner. For one thing this was the first chapter where I had not outlined ANYTHING. I tried to write off the cuff for SIX friggin' drafts before I decided to get with the program and plan out the damn chapter. That made things a lot easier. HOWEVER, this happened right when I was taking a week off from work (which is where I get about 80% of my writing done - my boss is awesome). I stayed home for vacay BUT I also had a 'honey do' list about a mile long (I am a single lady. My 'honey do' list means MY list.) By the end of the days during my vacay, I was sore, sweaty (not in a good way), stinky, dirty, and EXHAUSTED (ask my kid, I was the least fun vacationing parent EVER). I just got back to work on Monday and have been working on this chapter ever since.
> 
> Now about the story: I live with PTSD from numerous traumatic experiences since I was a kid. I exhibited a lot of the symptoms Hermione does (not the sleepwalking though) including the scattered thinking and inability to focus, planning escape routes in public places (and my home), panicking when alone, recurring lucid nightmares, etc. Things have gotten SO MUCH BETTER since therapy. 
> 
> Helen is the child of a narcissistic mother who did everything Helen did not want to do to Hermione (deny her identity, never gave her choices, defined and made decisions for her without consulting her). The issue of choices is a major trigger for her which is why she cannot let go of the fact that Hermione obliviated them without giving them a choice. 
> 
> Richard is KIND. He is not kind because he doesn't feel anger. He is kind because he CHOOSES to take the high road. He is not ignoring who Draco is or what he has done. He knows full well and is choosing to give Draco a chance based on his CURRENT behavior. Also, everytime I imagine Richard away from work he is hands deep in something dirty. I have no idea why but he strikes me as the type to enjoy dirty jobs that are hands on. More on this later, particularly when it comes to Draco. (I have plans. SO MANY PLANS BWAHAHAHAHA.)
> 
> Wendell/Monica's struggle is something I thought a long time about. Memories might be taken but love remains. In the case of a mother with a child - the child's dna remains in the mother's body for decades even after birth. Monica stares at her naked body in the mirror because HELEN knows she has stretch marks and a cesarean scar. Monica's "incident" - in my mind - occurs the same night Hermione is taken to Malfoy Manor and tortured.


	7. Elevenses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on a timeline for this story. This chapter takes place at the beginning of January 2000.

Helen is clipping on earrings when Hermione’s reflection appears in the mirror. Her daughter leans back against the blush wall, a complicated half-smile playing her lips. “Going on a ‘date’?”

“Don’t you start with that nonsense, too.” The older woman fusses a moment with her mid-length dark hair, rolling the strands into a loose bun at her nape. “I have a few errands to run in Diagon Alley. Molly will be joining and you are absolutely welcome to come along.”

“So you’re _not_ meeting Malfoy?” Her daughter’s tone is at once disapproving and intrigued as if she isn’t quite sure how to approach the subject. 

“We had planned to meet for elevenses.” Done with her hair and accessories, Helen turns to speak to Hermione directly. “I thought you didn’t want to know. In fact, I think your exact words were: _I don’t want to know, see, or hear anything about you and Malfoy_.”

Honestly, it had been a shock when Hermione confronted her while shopping at the grocer’s two days after their shared therapy session. Apparently during Hermione’s last visit to the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley had approached her to ask about rumors circulating in the small magical community that the Malfoy heir had struck an association with a muggle woman – the mother of a prominent muggle born witch. Details were few; however, the rumor was considered accurate as its origins lay with Lady Malfoy herself, her words taken and spread by her friend Mrs. Parkinson after an infrequent visit to the home bound Lady. _Some have named your mother as the muggle. Is it possible . . . ?_

Hermione had initially laughed off the alleged reports as utter hogwash – not only was it improbable that Draco Malfoy would seek out muggle company, it was damn near impossible that the muggle in question might be her own mother! The suggestion was just this side of insanity! 

So she had dismissed the story out of hand and gone about her visit with the Weasley family sans – the very missed – Fred.

Later, she couldn’t even remember the claims of a possible connection between Helen and Malfoy through the fuzz and fire in her brain when Ron announced he was now engaged to his girlfriend of two months. Aria Oakwood, nineteen years old, half-blood. They met at the pub Aria works at, serving and bussing tables. She was home-schooled by her witch mother and has four siblings – two older brothers and two younger sisters. Abundantly effervescent, Aria speaks as if everything – big, small, bad or good – is a sparkling treasure worthy of yelling from mountain tops. She’s also a dead ringer for Lavender Brown who has been missing since the Battle of Hogwarts and presumed dead.

Everyone was gob smacked by the haste of their relationship. Hermione didn’t know if she was angry (that this was probably a move to get back at her for rejecting him and ending their flirtation) or disappointed (that she was so easily replaced despite not regretting her decision at all). 

Her mood had tipped into _enraged_ when Ron had – quite blatantly – sneered in her direction and told his _new fiancée_ that he was glad he found someone so in tune with his own desires for a family and children unlike Hermione, who would rather live in the muggle world and see a muggle head doctor.

Harry had immediately come to her defense, cussing at Ron for overstepping – one just doesn’t comment on a friend’s mental health in mixed company. To avoid embarrassing Aria (who deserved NONE of what Ron Weasley was peddling), Hermione had taken the floo home immediately to be alone and vent and _thank her stars_ she had dodged _that_ bullet.

But – once her mood had quieted (and Ron had sent her a sprawling apology via the immortal Errol) – Hermione began to muse on the rumors Mrs. Weasley had warned her about; and like an itch you can’t scratch, it grated on her for days as she began to take note of things like the amount of floo powder available near the fire place and the frequency of the owl post. 

It wasn’t until she found the essay in her mother’s rubbish drawer while searching for a certain hair clip to wear to their joint session that she realized it was not just a rumor. She confronted Helen two days later in the very public grocer’s market to keep herself from throwing hexes (or otherwise making a scene). 

The ensuing _discussion_ (tense though it was) had Helen explaining how things precipitated (her initial two invitations), why Draco continues to meet with her (she has no idea why as she’s only invited him the twice, he just keeps showing up – now even more often since Richard is teaching him about cars), and what she plans to do about it (absolutely nothing). Hermione told Helen that while _Helen_ might find Malfoy tolerable, there is just too much Hermione is trying to process and she does not – under any circumstances – want anything to do with him. 

Helen reassured Hermione that it was never her intention that she and Draco meet at all which is why Helen had limited his visits to times she knew Hermione would not be home. _He asks after you every time. But I’m very careful about giving him information about you, dear. I would never betray your privacy, particularly to a former bully._ It was also never her intention to hide anything about the acquaintance as it was never meant to be so prolonged. 

Helen had – seeing Hermione’s fierce expression – offered to stop her association with Draco completely and permanently. Taken aback, wide-eyed, Hermione had asked in a smallish voice, _You would do that? If I wanted you to?_

Assured her mother meant what she had said ( _You have been and always will be my first priority, love_ ), Hermione hesitantly responded that while she didn’t understand the appeal of speaking to Malfoy, she didn’t want to force her mother into taking any particular action. There had been enough drama between them in the last several months. Though, Hermione did reserve the right to ask for a cessation of acquaintance after some time to think and observe.

Now, two weeks after their shared therapy session and Draco’s first meeting with Richard, Helen smiles at her daughter as Hermione huffs, “ _I don’t_ , not really; but he’s off probation now. I don’t trust him not to hex or curse you or something equally terrible.”

Helen merely touches fingertips to Hermione’s cheek. “I’ll be fine, darling.” She exits the loo to grab a cardigan laid out on the bed, “You can always join us to keep an eye on him if you like.”

Hermione follows Helen downstairs, her gait heavy and purposeful as always, “ _Mum_.”

“Better make up your mind soon. Molly will be here in moments to pick me up.” Helen glances back at the younger woman, glad to see Hermione fighting a smile. Her complexion is better too – not quite so sickly pale, and her hands aren’t quite as fidgety. While the nightmares are still a problem, they are lessening in intensity and frequency, the cot gone from her bedroom the last five nights. 

“I have plans of my own, Mum. The girls and I are going visit Andromeda and Teddy later.” 

There is a loud _crack_ as Mrs. Weasley appears in the main room, her arms going around Hermione for a brief squeeze. “Goodness, you’re still too thin, love!” She embraces Helen next though the hold hints at a bald formality, the action just this side of obligatory rather than affectionate. 

Helen steps back from the ginger, smiling a warmer greeting before reminding a tickled and affectionate Hermione to bring her wand and phone with her and to remember to give Helen’s love to Andromeda and Teddy. She makes a mental note to drop by the Tonks’ house for a visit herself soon. 

The two mothers commiserate for a moment – Helen once more giving her condolences ( _Fred was such a lively soul, I hope George is coping well_ ) and congratulations on Ronald’s hasty engagement ( _You must be over the moon, Hermione tells me Aria is a lovely girl, just lovely_ ) while Molly welcomes her back to England ( _It’s so wonderful to have you back and remembering again, Hermione was so worried she was. Brilliant girl, but she could have asked the Order for help. We would have been happy to relocate you both_ ) and asks after her time in Australia ( _Spent much time at the beach did you? I understand muggles enjoy that sport with the waves and the board –_ suffing _, is it?_ )

Helen checks on Hermione one last time and is assured that yes, she is comfortable being home alone for a bit and no, Dad does not need to leave the office to babysit her. Dually, Hermione inquires if Helen has enough galleons and if she would mind checking in on Ollivander and –

“I promise to check in on everyone, dear. I’ll just take this card,” she brandishes a bit of fresh parchment on Hermione’s desk, “and have them all write you something, shall I?” Another few seconds are spent embracing as Helen cannot seem to let go. 

Back in the main room, Mrs. Weasley neglects to comment on Helen’s peaky complexion before reaching for her wrist to side-along into Diagon Alley. Having heard from Hermione how disorienting it is, Helen had thought she was prepared, but she spends several moments dry heaving against a brick building, the sharp edges of several blocks cutting into her shoulder while Molly rubs at her back soothingly, whispering that it will pass soon.

It does. 

Getting her bearings, Helen nods to Molly as they begin their shopping trek. 

The Wizarding market isn’t the bustling hub it once was, Helen notes. The colors seem muted, the patrons squirrelly and thinned, a few businesses are gone and replaced by new ones, some shop fronts are still a shambles and others in various stages of repair. For all of that, the sight of wizards and witches in their flowing, archaic robes and the palpable magic crackling like static on her skin still fills her with wonder and awe. 

War destroyed much, but it didn’t destroy everything. It didn’t break the spirit of these people and community. An irrepressible grin comes and Helen looks over at Molly who seems of a similar feeling, her face smoothing about the edges, appearing younger with eyes shining.

“I want to thank you again, Molly, for bringing me along. I truly appreciate it.” She doesn’t say how ridiculous it is that even muggles in the _know_ , like herself and Richard, are still excluded from the magical world without proper _accompaniment_. 

Molly _tsks_ , “Nonsense, dear. Anytime you have a need.” Then a deep breath. “Hermione . . . Is she still . . . ?” She allows the query to hang there between them like a stray thread, thin and barely visible but doggedly brushing your skin as you go about your business.

Helen sets her teeth then breathes out. “She isn’t interested in returning at this time.” It isn’t something she or Richard is entirely happy about. Being a witch has always been something Hermione was immensely proud of. The ability to channel real magic and do it _well_ had become a large part of her daughter’s identity; and while Helen isn’t absolutely certain what is causing Hermione’s resistance in returning to the magical world – even for short periods of time, she and Richard have tried to be supportive while reticent in pressuring her. 

To be quite honest, it is a dark fear of Helen’s that Hermione will _never_ be open to returning again. 

“She’s actually mentioned possibly attending university but no real decision has been made as of yet.”

Molly hums noncommittally, “War has changed all of us.” She shakes her head as if to dispel the heavy thought. “What shops were you planning to visit?” 

Reaching into her purse, Helen brandishes a smallish slip of paper. “First, Flourish and Blotts. Hermione had mentioned a few books she should have liked to read before Hogwarts’ library was decimated. F&B managed to procure copies of a few; however, they were not in in time for Christmas so they shall be a ‘just because’ gift, I think.” She mentions also having business at the Second Hand Bookshop and Gringotts. 

The two women go about the way together, chatting amiably through shop after shop, visiting Quality Quidditch Supplies, Madame Malkin’s, and Mr. Mulpepper’s Apothecary in addition to Helen’s shopping destinations. They stand just outside of Gringotts when Molly announces that she has completed her list, and Helen replies that she has an appointment at a tea shop for elevenses, “Brahma Tea Lounge.” Her tea friend will be able to see her home.

Molly seems uncomfortable as she comments, “Brahma is quite posh.” A quiet, measuring stare and, “There’s a rumor, which I’m sure is only just, that a muggle – mother of a muggle born of some import – has been consorting with Draco Malfoy, a former Death Eater.” She titters nervously, a high flush on her cheeks before waving her hands about as if batting after flies. “Your name has come up particularly. But that’s preposterous. Honestly, I’m sure Hermione has told you about _him_. A bad egg if ever there was one. Letting Death Eaters into the school and nearly murdering Dumbledore. That boy should be in Azkaban with his father.” She tuts sourly. “That entire family, villains, all of them.”

Waiting patiently, Helen sighs before retorting, “Draco isn’t a villain and – I’ll remind you – he has already been tried, judged and punished for his crimes. He’s certainly had an awful attitude and done horrible things in the past to our children which have not been excused; but – as you stated earlier – war has changed _everyone_. That statement includes Draco.”

Shock and fury play over Molly’s expression in splotches of red and pale, flashing blue eyes, shaking fists and a heaving bosom. “You should be _ashamed_. To parade about with that vile monster after what he’s done! Not only to those innocent students but to _your own daughter_ too!” She is fairly spitting now, “And I _defended_ you! Hermione seemed to have no idea when I told her of the rumors, and I _promised_ her there could be no substance in it! You would never _betray_ her that way.”

Passersby are stopping to look and listen, a few people keep moving with their head pointedly angled down. Helen merely watches Molly rage, her countenance markedly cool and unmoved. “I have discussed everything with Hermione and – frankly – it is none of your business who I associate with or why.” 

Molly lifts her chin and glares, her face moving from “splotchy” to “all over red” even as her voice goes shrill. “You had best mind yourself when consorting with Death Eaters, _Helen_.”

The other woman smiles frostily, as she calmly warns, “You had best drop this line of conversation before our friendship is damaged, _Mrs. Weasley_.” When the Weasley matriarch seems only capable of gaping like a landed fish, Helen allows a little warmth into the smile still pasted on her lips. “Now that this unpleasantness is behind us, I want to thank you for being so concerned about my daughter; and please do remind Ronald to visit soon. I would love to congratulate him personally.”

Shrewd, with narrowed eyes, Molly harrumphs with hands on hips, her complexion easing into a more natural hue but still stained a distinct rose. “I’m sure you would just _love_ to get my boy alone again! He still isn’t recovered from the _last time_ you attacked him! _Unprovoked_!”

Helen struggles to retain her composure, her lips mashed together in a – no doubt – pale line. She pulls the ends of her scarf a little tighter around her neck to cope with the tension coiling in her gut. Quietly – so the growing group of watchers cannot hear (she hopes), Helen hisses, “Are you telling me that if a boy – whether brother, friend, or beau – treated your daughter how _your son_ treated mine, you wouldn’t have done the same?” And – just to make it clear to the uninvited witnesses, “And I _didn’t_ attack him. I never even touched him. I just gave him a well-deserved and thorough dressing down.”

_He’ll be lucky if I don’t smack him in the face when I see him next now he’s of majority._

Molly visibly pauses for long seconds then subsides, a sheepish caste coming over her receding flush. “You’re right . . . I was out of line.”

“It’s understandable. He is your child just as Hermione is mine. Your protectiveness is one of the reasons I entrusted her care to you for so many years.”

“I want you to know – that business, when my Ronald left Hermione and Harry in the woods . . . I boxed his ears for that . . . and worse.”

Helen feels something tight and thorny in her gut ease. She smiles. “I’ve no doubt.”

Molly shakes her head with a cluck of her tongue. “When he _does_ pop over for a visit, don’t hit him _too hard_ , yeah? Wedding in a month, you know.”

With the fight seemingly over, their audience disperses (somewhat disappointed), leaving them at Ollivander’s storefront. The windows have been replaced and the awning remolded. The interior is once more in order though a few scorch marks can still be seen behind yet unorganized stacks of wand boxes.

Molly bids Helen a farewell with another warning about socializing with known Death Eaters (former or otherwise), this time in a friendlier, caring way that doesn’t make Helen’s hackles rise. Helen – equally more friendly and caring, assures Molly that she doesn’t believe Draco is a danger to anyone save himself. “That boy is on a sharp-edged precipice and he could fall upon either side or fall forward and cut his own head off.”

“So you’ll continue to see him?”

“As long as Hermione allows. I think he has a lot of potential – he has the brain and the resources to do _so much_ ; but he hasn’t had much constructive guidance.”

Molly frowns. “And I suppose you’re trying to fill that role?”

Helen shakes her head. “No.”

Molly opens her mouth to say something else, but Helen is already asserting, “That’s Richard’s self-appointed job.”

They wrap up their conversation with invitations to houses, thanks and well wishes, hugs and air kisses before Molly walks away, her purchases magicked small and pocket-sized. Her own bags are laying on the ground near her feet to give her arms a little rest. Sighing loudly, Helen hauls up the bags and waddles (slightly) under their combined weight into Ollivander’s to fulfill her promise to Hermione as well as ask for directions (traveling the length and breadth of the Alley, she had not seen one sign, advert, or shop front displaying the name of the tea shop Draco had invited her to). 

The old man seems even more wizened than the last she saw him, but he is – as usual – delightful and just a touch curmudgeonly, like a favorite uncle. They discuss current news and other, inconsequential things before he asks after Hermione (and her wand) and assures Helen that everyone copes with the traumas of war in myriad ways. He skirts around the subject of his own imprisonment at Malfoy Manor but – strangely – notes that his stay would have been much worse without the young Malfoy’s influence. 

She inquires as to the directions which he is happy to give before she presents him with the card. He happily fills one corner with jovial platitudes before telling her to visit again soon. Her goals fulfilled, Helen hugs him a brief “take care” and makes her way to Brahma, situated in a little nook between Madam Malkin’s and Eeylop’s.

She arrives a few minutes early but Draco is already there and though he seems tense at first glance, he’s a gentleman – standing when she enters, taking her bags and coat, helping her to her seat. After greeting him, breathless, she takes a moment to look around at the place – it looks less high end café and more exotic flea market with colorful linens and wall hangings, mismatched furniture, and golden tea services overseen with an ostentatious, well-dressed wait staff.

Wait staff blatantly glowering at their table.

Helen blinks and snaps her attention to Draco, zeroing in on a few inconspicuous wet spots lingering on his robes and red marks on his hands. 

A waiter appears at her elbow, pleasantly asking after what she would like. He pales when she glares up at him coldly and pronounces a cup of masala chai. Her frigid scowl doesn’t leave the man until he exits the main serving room. 

“Remind me to never get on your bad side . . . _again_.” Draco smirks above the rim of his cup, the steam coming off his tea gives the unsettling image that he is breathing smoke like his namesake. The image makes her snow queen façade crack just a bit as she takes him in.

He looks much the same despite the few weeks they haven’t seen each other, though she notices a few subtle changes. For one, his shoulders are at a confident set, relaxed and broad. He is sitting, straight and tall with one ankle crossed over his opposite knee. This falls naturally into an observation of how he’s filling out his clothes, no longer too thin but just right; and it isn’t fat taking up the previous extra space. He looks solid, firm – a man coming into his own. She notes the bruises around his knuckles, the skinned flank of his left pinky. 

“You’re looking quite fit,” she says without hyperbole and sips her tea, newly set before her. It’s full tasting and decadent and probably costs more than a lifetime supply of the instant she buys in bulk. 

His smirk is still there but his eyes are warm. “I’ve taken up boxing and a bit of running.”

She snorts, “I’m assuming we have Richard to thank for that.”

Draco takes up a cucumber finger sandwich and stuffs it into his mouth. “He put in a good word for me.” 

_At the boxing club, of course he did._ Her husband is the patron saint of lost souls, it seems. “Well, then, I should hope – in his honor – you will promise to use your new-found skills for good instead of evil.” Truly, she needs to sit the boy down to read _Spiderman_. 

His smile – the first real one she’s seen from him – transforms him from a fifty year old in a twenty year old’s body to a boyish rake of a man, all flirtation and enigmatic joviality. “I’ve already been down the road to evil – it runs parallel to hell. I would rather not repeat the journey.”

Though his expression is light, she can sense the seriousness of the quip and stirs her tea silently. As she intimated to Molly earlier, she understands how precarious Draco’s position is – questioning everything he’s been taught to think and believe – despite the strides he’s already taken to a more functional attitude. He is still – very much – in transition, and could still decide to follow in his father’s footsteps, folding into his elitist pureblood society again. No matter his current unspoken conviction not to.

She hums as it comes to her notice, the odd person peering through the windows to scowl in his direction. Looking around, she realizes other patrons are acting similarly put out with his presence. Glancing at him again, he appears unperturbed if he’s perceived the attention at all.

Choosing to ignore the scrutiny, she taps the table, her index finger pointing towards Draco’s wand lying on the table near his right hand. She hadn’t noticed when she came in and wonders if he laid it in plain sight for her benefit or his. “So, how does it feel to be a completely free wizard?”

He takes a moment, chewing on a strawberry and cream cheese sandwich this time, before smirking devilishly and practically purring, “ _Liberating_.”

Helen’s is so pleasantly surprised, she breaks into laughter that is too loud for their surroundings and the joke but she doesn’t really care. Draco also doesn’t seem to be moved by the impropriety, his smirk still in place and his eyes blazing with satisfaction. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you laugh, _Doctor_ Granger.”

Still tittering, Helen reaches out of her seat to smack his shoulder. “I think we know each other well enough now that you needn’t be so formal, _Lord_ Malfoy.” He sits up a bit straighter, his expression closed but his eyes illuminated with some strange sense of anticipation, like a little boy in a candy store and no budget. “You may now call me ‘Mrs. Granger’.” He deflates a little but the smile remains, smaller, almost _humble_.

“Richard allowed me to use his name at our first meeting.” His tone is only slightly petulant.

She grins, “Think of my name as something to work for.”

He scoffs into his tea, drinking deeply. “. . . How is Grang-ah- _Hermione_ faring?”

She had been expecting the question sooner or later. Hermione is rarely spoken of during their meetings, but she is ever present between them. He always asks if she’s home or how she’s doing, his expression always that blank, guarded mask, but – this time - she is surprised at the sincerity in his tone and the worry expressed in his gaze. It makes her feel just a smidge guilty for deflecting, “Why do you always trip over her name like that?”

Drumming his fingers on the table with no real rhythm, he averts his eyes and murmurs something unintelligible. Getting to know him, Helen recognizes Draco tends to keep certain things – thoughts, feelings, doubts, and questions – close to the vest. 

Sometimes it’s best to let him stew in it until he’s ready to share. So she takes pity and frames her words carefully. She has a promise to keep to her daughter, after all. “Honestly, Lord Malfoy, she is well.”

His hands still, gray eyes blink and stare. His mouth forms shapes but no sound comes. It’s not the first time she wonders at what is going on behind his eyes that he cannot speak sometimes.

And then, because she feels he should know, “She also knows that we’ve been meeting. I’ve told her everything save the experiences and feelings you’ve shared of a personal nature, Lord Malfoy.” 

He nods, accepting but . . . nervous, a little reserved and still quiet, waiting. She tells him that Hermione was more upset about being in the dark about it, about hearing about it from rumor rather than Helen. She tells him Hermione has made it clear that she doesn’t want to see him right now. 

Sensing this is Helen’s final word, Draco nods again, his face reflecting nothing. “I think we know each other well enough now that you needn’t be so formal, _Mrs. Granger_.” His smirk is back as he relaxes into his chair, taking up his cup again and emptying the dregs. “You may now call me ‘Mr. Malfoy.’”

She purses her lips and narrows her eyes at him before dismissing his mockery with a wave as she asks if things have improved with his mother. He pushes the sandwich dish toward her – there are only two left, one of each flavor. “I decided to take Richard’s advice and haven’t committed to anything. Unfortunately, Mother was not satisfied. She gave me the silent treatment for an entire week before admitting over breakfast that I might have just cause for ignoring the summons.”

It’s nothing Helen doesn’t already know from Richie. Draco has been communicating with her husband even more frequently than her at their teas, mostly by owl post but sometimes dropping into the garage when he needs someone to talk to. Helen takes the cucumber sandwich first. “I’m glad to hear she’s open to seeing things from your side.”

Draco shrugs before shooting her an annoyed look. “Yes, well, forgive me for changing the subject so abruptly; but my mother would dearly appreciate it if you would cease sending her muggle things. They drive her batty.”

Snickering quietly, Helen points out that she sent out another package just this morning. He grumbles that his mother feels Helen is making fun of her. 

“Ridiculous,” Helen hums around the strawberry and cream cheese. “I hold nothing against your mother, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco gives her a vaguely accusing high brow look but says nothing. Helen merely asserts she is trying to help by educating the woman. “After all”, Helen says amusedly, “I went to the trouble of learning all about this magic nonsense, while you pureblood layabouts continue to wallow proudly in your collective willful ignorance about the non-magical world-at-large.”

Draco actually guffaws at that, his eyes like quick silver and water. “Well . . . . she did enjoy those novels you sent – the ones with the shirtless men in provocative poses on the covers? She hides them under her pillow and reads them before she goes to sleep.”

Helen grins, thinking of the audio books and portable CD player she had sent. “Then she will absolutely adore what I sent today.”

Groaning, the young man across from her complains that she’s making his mother “go muggle”. Helen just watches him with a smile, wondering at how far they’ve come in the months since her first invitation.

A lull in conversation ensues, but neither feels uncomfortable. It’s something Helen appreciates about Draco: he isn’t so in love with his own voice that he needs to fill every moment with needless chatter. As the last bit of tea is consumed and the sandwich dish empties but for crumbs, Draco gestures for the bill and pays without offering or asking or negotiating. Then he’s helping her into her coat and grabbing her bags from her hands. He doesn’t offer to walk her back to the Alley entrance, and she doesn’t mention it; he simply accompanies her without question or command.

Eyes follow them out of the door then glare at them outside. She doesn’t care, just glances up at this _awful_ boy who flirted with evil and is now trying to become a _decent_ adult human being. He doesn’t seem affected at the stares, doesn’t react when a handful begin spitting in his wake, doesn’t stop in his trek when a few overly angry, foolishly brave souls throw food scraps and other projectiles at him, ruining his expensive coat and trousers. 

Helen moves to say something, _do_ something; but Draco’s hand stops her. His face is carefully blank as he tells her, “This is nothing more than I deserve. Let them be.”

She swallows thickly and wonders if it’s wise to allow the abuse; but as they get closer to the Leaky Cauldron, the attackers seem to lose interest and leave. 

“Mrs. Granger, if I may be crass, I’ve told you about my parents; but you’ve never spoken of yours.” Draco isn’t looking at her, still doing his wall impression. 

It seems out of the blue, but she suspects he’s been wondering how to ask for some time. “What do you want to know?” There’s so much, honestly. So much she wants to forget. (The irony is not lost on her).

His Adam’s apple bobs nervously as he swallows, his hands are tight around her purchases, his shoulders slightly raised with the tension. “Richard told me I should ask you about Henrietta.”

Her feet stop moving at the name of her egg donor. She is going to fucking murder her husband. “What could you possibly want or need to know about that horrid bitch?”

Draco’s eyes are round when he turns to study her, his shock a palpable fizzy kind of thing. She’s never cussed in front of him, never taken that tone – full of salt, vinegar, and a hint of dynamite. She imagines insulting one’s parent – particularly in such a vulgar way – in any setting with any sort of company is _not done_ in pureblood society. 

And once again, she finds herself the subject of study from passersby. Draco pulls them beneath a shop awning, edging into a niche between buildings. It offers only a modicum of privacy but it’s something at least.

“I don’t.” Draco starts, his mouth a grim line, his poise reasserted like a shield. “Richard suggested asking . . . he implied your mother and my father were similar in character, and that you might be able to help me navigate . . . this break from Lucius.”

Helen – as a rule – doesn’t give advice. That is, absolutely, Richard’s wheelhouse; and she doesn’t want the responsibility. “Firstly, that woman is not my mother, she is my egg donor at best. Secondly, while Henrietta did not invite a self-titled Dark Lord into her home, I think of her as the female version of Satan so Richard is not too far off the mark judging the similarities. Thirdly, you don’t need help cutting someone out of your life, you simply ignore their existence as if they are well and truly dead, even if they aren’t, and go about your life as you see fit.”

Draco runs a hand through his hair and sets down her bags, adjusts his sleeves and coat and tie. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet . . . or if I ever will be.” His gaze is steady when he meets her eyes. “How did you know you were ready? To . . . to cut Henrietta out of your life.”

Helen takes the few steps to stand next to him, leans against the brick wall and tips her head back, trying to filter her thoughts and decide what she wants to share (if anything). She normally doesn’t talk about her egg donor, doesn’t even like to think about that part of her life. Now, with the memories flashing behind her eyes, her stomach feels empty but heavy, a tingling begins in her palms and climbs up her neck. 

And then, she’s talking. “It took me a long time to understand, but Henrietta was only ever capable of loving herself. Everyone else was either a minion to be subjugated or an enemy to be crushed. I was crush-bait for the sin of being born with a vagina and the potential for growing breasts.”

Draco coughs uncomfortably but doesn’t interrupt. She realizes that he’s taking this seriously, that her experience with a “parent” driven by self-interest might – indeed - aid him in the plight of his own controlling father and what to do about the life now stretched out before him. “Her hatred for me was pretty much established from the moment I was born and pronounced female. She flat out refused to hold me or take care of me in any fashion when I was an infant. She told people I was a boy and dressed me in my brothers’ hand-me-downs as a toddler. As I grew older, my brothers and father tried to shield me for a while but eventually fell into the minion camp and just stood by while she made my life hell.”

Her voice lowers unconsciously and Draco leans a little closer to better hear. “She never hit me. Bruises would have ruined her Mother-of-theYear image . . . but I wasn’t allowed to make any decisions regarding any aspect of my own life. She chose which clothes I would wear, how my hair would be styled, what I ate and drank – regardless if I liked it or not, where I went, who I was friends with. _Everything_. It got worse after my father divorced her. She blamed me, of course, even though none of us heard from him again.”

She gives him a bitter smile, her eyes far away. “She told me – all the time – how she wished she’d taken a wire hanger to me before I was born.” His confusion is evident, but she neglects to explain. She doesn’t want to get into it. “Sometimes she would ‘forget’ to set me a place at dinner, or it would “slip her mind” that I was out working and to leave the key under the mat. I would have to find somewhere to sleep for the night. When I was old enough to date (with permission), she would flirt with my boyfriends. She even dated one after he broke up with me. I found her fucking another in her car.”

Helen rolls her eyes at him, the old anger having long dispersed into disgust. “There was no dramatic last straw. It just hit me one night when I was sixteen that I grew up doing everything in my power to please her and always fell short. It took a long time to realize that I would NEVER be able to please her because when she looked at me, all she saw was competition. Any honor, compliment or accomplishment I earned was perceived as a personal attack. She wanted to remain forever the queen and me the slave at the end of her whip.”

Gritting her teeth, she stops for a moment to remember the last time she had seen the woman who grudgingly gave her life. “I left that night. Never looked back. I went to live with my aunt, finished school and worked my way through university. Henrietta tried once to collect me, but it was more for show than anything else, just another reason to play the perfect mother victim while I was cast as the demon child come from hell to torment her. After that, I didn’t hear of her or my brothers for a long time.”

Her mouth quirks up slightly when she notes Draco’s intense interest in her story. “Then I got married and after Hermione was born, Richard convinced me to reach out to her. He had never met her before, and I think he may have believed I was exaggerating how vile she is.” Her fledgling smile twists into a grimace. “After a few weeks of correspondence and telephone calls, she agreed to visit.”

Lost in memory, she huffs, shooting an exasperated look at her companion. “From the moment she stepped out of her car, I knew the visit would go badly. We had agreed she was only coming for three days. She had ten pieces of luggage even though she lived only thirty minutes away. We had agreed she would sleep in her own home every night; she made it clear only our master bedroom would do. I was still recovering from my cesarean but she – clearly – expected me to wait on her while she flirted with Richard. When I presented Hermione – only a month old at the time, Henrietta barely spared her a glance and said, ‘Too bad it’s a girl. Better luck next time.’” 

Here, she pauses, catches Draco’s gaze and quietly finishes, “I didn’t even have to kick her out. Richard beat me to it. I haven’t spoken to her since, and on the rare occasions we run into each other, I pretend she doesn’t exist. She accosts Richard sometimes at the grocer’s or out in town, but he’s grown efficient at shutting her down.” She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, letting out all the bad feelings. “She’s never seen Hermione again.”

Draco is pale and working his throat. His expression is worn – the fifty year old in a twenty year old body returned. “She lives near you?” 

Helen nods, watching him bend to pick up her bags again. Soon enough, they are moving down the lane, within eyesight of the Leaky. Hesitantly, Helen touches his elbow. “If you decide that you _want_ to see your father, it’s important to establish boundaries and decide on what standards of treatment you will tolerate. I probably would have allowed Henrietta to remain in my house until her scheduled days were up even hating every moment she breathed. I had changed during our estrangement. I was stronger and could take the abuse. It was her dismissal of Hermione that was the last nail in the coffin of our toxic relationship.”

The young man at her side says nothing though she knows he’s heard every word. He escorts her to Diagon Alley’s muggle exit before side-along apparating with her to Hampstead Gardens, handing over her bags. He – very decorously – thanks her for putting up with him and pauses, seeming as if he wants to say something more; but he shakes his head and asks if he may visit for tea next Tuesday.

She merely smiles and pats his cheek before walking away. 

Later, at home, Helen finds Hermione curled up on the sofa reading _Hogwarts: A History_ (again) – slower than usual but with all determination, and greets her warmly with a sitting side hug and kiss. Hermione nestles into Helen’s body, and they talk about their days. 

Hermione tells her about Andromeda teaching her a few knitting hacks and coos about how adorable Teddy is, how sweet he smells, how much she’s tempted to bite his cheeks. “He’s talking now,” she says excitedly, “just a few words and he loves it when I read to him. He tries to echo everything I say, so seriously. I couldn’t stop squeezing and kissing him!”

Helen hands over the note card, riddled with signatures and messages from different shop keepers but doesn’t say anything about Draco save that they had tea at Brahma’s and that it was a very interesting experience. 

For a bare moment, Hermione seems very similar to Draco – like she wants to say or ask something but, for whatever reason, decides to leave it for now. Finally, she asks when Helen is seeing him again. Blinking, confused at the sudden active interest, Helen tuts and responds, “Tuesday, as usual.”

The younger woman’s thoughts are a mystery, whizzing behind her eyes before she squares her shoulders as if preparing for battle. “Here?” Helen answers in the affirmative then offers to make other arrangements if Hermione isn’t comfortable – 

Hermione says, “That won’t be necessary,” kisses her mother’s cheek then leaves the book on the sofa and goes upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've stated before I have a bit of experience with narcissistic people. That line about the wire hanger? My ex-best friend's mom said that to her. That bit about Henrietta seeing Helen as competition - that's based off of someone I HAVE to deal with on a semi-daily basis. That line about "Better luck next time", yeah, that's based on comments my aforementioned ex-best friend said about my child from the time I was pregnant till I gave birth. This is why she is no longer a friend and she has been cut out of my life. To this day, if she sees me and I can't manage to ignore her, she will greet me but will completely pretend my child isn't there. And no, I don't tolerate that shit. (Helen is very much based on my inability to tolerate shit, just a warning.)
> 
> Next time: Draco writes some letters then he arrives for tea only to find an unexpected Granger at the table.


	8. High Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy writes letters then has tea with an unexpected Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be another harsh chapter.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of torture, bloodletting, necrophilia.
> 
> Mood music: Heal My Wounds by Poets of the Fall

Sunlight angles through the windows, glitters off slow-melting icicles clinging to the top frame, almost blindingly as he sits at his desk writing letters. There is a missive to his solicitors, to the Minister of Magic, to _Lucius_.

His mother comes in brandishing her muggle compact disc player and complaining that someone has cast a silencio (“It had better not have been you, my dragon”) on her new favorite toy. Draco absently mentions it probably needs new batteries even as he dips quill in ink and continues to write. 

Narcissa sits for a moment, just watching him silently for a moment. It’s an activity she has entertained more frequently lately, much to his disquietude. She asks if he’s writing to his father, and he sets down his quill, countering, “And if I am?”

Had she been anyone else, she would sigh, long suffering and exhausted in dealing with Draco’s moods. “I only want our family to be together again, darling. And, barring such, a measure of felicity. Sniping between ourselves over past mistakes – no matter how large and far reaching – cannot be conducive to our collective happiness.”

Draco says, without emotion or nuance, “I don’t think that such felicity is possible anymore. There are simply some things, some actions that cannot be forgotten or forgiven . . .” He meets his mother’s eyes. Narcissa says nothing more. No surprise – she never wants to talk about the ugly important things, a major contributor to the ever-yawning distance between them. 

With pursed mouth, she floats over to his writing desk, embraces him stiffly and kisses his cheek. “Have a good time at tea with the muggles, dear.”

As she walks away, he feels the stress of expectation, loyalty, and his personal preferences. He loves his mother. It pains him to see her upset, more so that he is the origin of it. But they don’t really _talk_ to each other, and he’s beginning to understand just how shallow their relationship has always been. 

While he knows it isn’t fair to do so, he cannot help but compare how Mrs. Granger and Richard discuss real problems, real emotions and real solutions, unafraid to tell him he is wrong and confident in debating his views. 

Such open discourse is not possible between him and his mother. They are confined by their commitment to pure blood rules of etiquette while the muggles are not. His mother cannot speak her mind as the Lady of the house, subject to Draco who cannot speak HIS mind despite his designation as acting Head of house because he is her son. And should he entertain thoughts of challenging the status quo, the cardinal rule of their family stops him: Malfoys simply do not complain about _being_ Malfoys.

He can also admit – if just to himself – that he hasn’t felt close to his mother since . . . since the war, possibly long before Voldemort was resurrected. <,p> While he hates his father, there is a barely buried simmering anger towards his mother, fueled by just a hint of blame. He knows she could have convinced his father to run – to the Order or another country, something – as soon as that fucking monster breathed again. She could have put her foot down and refused to house the Dark Lord when it was a mere suggestion rather than a command (though it probably would have changed nothing as her word was next to worthless compared to his father’s). She could have _protected_ him. They could have run to Dumbledore together before the Dark Mark was grafted into him. Instead, she capitulated – because she trusted his father or shared his beliefs, he isn’t sure – and then slapped a shoddy bandage on the wound that resulted with an Unbreakable Vow.

But for all of that, he isn’t an unreasonable man. He knows those decisions were difficult at best and impossible at worst; however, she was the adult in the situation and a bloody powerful witch. Why hadn’t she protected him and their family before Lucius dug them in so deep, it was left to Draco to dig them out? 

Children are not meant to protect their parents.

He finishes the letters, envelopes and addresses them with a bit of wax and the family seal. He stares at the stylized ‘M’ for several ticks, the familiar weight of dread warring with the new fledgling energy of determination. 

When he finally finds the strength to rise, he doesn’t trek to the owlery, not yet. He folds the small stack into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, then – almost as an afterthought - adds a shrunken roll of parchment into the same. He has a business meeting after tea with Mrs. Granger and it won’t do to appear unprepared, no matter how much he would rather bathe in bubotuber pus.

Patting the letters at his breast pocket, Draco acknowledges silently: he isn’t exactly innocent of making equally horrible decisions regardless of his minority at Hogwarts, during the war. 

The time to leave nears, but he doesn’t need to floo this time, having full use of his wand. There’s no rush, even though his innards are quivering with the impulse. He has received a missive from Mrs. Granger yesterday evening asking to change their tea time to noon, as she has errands that need to be handled later. It’s quite out of the normal; but he knows things can pop up from time to time. He appreciated the warning and sent her a confirmation just after breaking his fast.

While he could apparate from any room in the house, he chooses to meander through the upstairs into the library down the central staircase and past the main receiving room to confront the bolted drawing room door as he does every day. It had been closed off by his mother nearly as soon as Granger, Weasel, and Potter had escaped with the rebel elf, Dobby.

Unlocking the door, he steps purposefully into the room featured in many of his nightmares. The space is still a wreck from back then – covered over in dust and cobwebs, the floors spilled over in shining crystal shards despite charms to self-clean . . . He moves to stand where he stood when his aunt had Hermione on the floor, writhing and screaming.

He had seen many tortured before her, quite a few after. All haunted him; however, none had inspired guilt like she did. From the moment her thin, wan face appeared before him that terrific night - her arms held behind her back by Greyback, hair tumbling into her dirty face, smelling of wood smoke, trees and wildflowers - he knew everything was about to fall apart. He had had no time to weigh his options and stumbled into plausible deniability. 

But even if he had outright identified Potter or clearly denied him, it wouldn’t have been enough to save her from his aunt. Bellatrix liked to cause pain and fear, fed off of it really; but she tended to kill quickly, violating the corpses for hours afterward – staking her claim over death. He hated watching her. Hated how she would cackle and tease and taunt before even lifting her wand. How she would circle her prey like a shark, soft spoken and sprite-like with wide, empty eyes and a pleasant smile. (So similar to Umbridge when she was meeting out “punishments”).

Even without his certain identification of Potter, that fucking bint had taken the _idea_ of punishing Potter’s mudblood and run with it. Her bloodlust and insanity had increased, particularly after spotting the stupid sword, the brutality of her attacks reaching new frightening heights. Draco knew then, his aunt meant to break Hermione Granger, this mudblood who had risen to legendary status before even graduating from Hogwarts . . . this mudblood who outshone them all . . . _brightest witch of her age_.

If he had protested loud enough, he would have been able to leave, but – in a moment of pure empathy, again, strange for him – he wanted to be there for Granger, even if only to be a familiar face in the midst of mortal foes. 

Now, standing here and looking down to where she had lain, dazed and bleeding after _that word_ was carved into her flesh, he realizes how foolish his sentiments had been. What kind of comfort could a perceived enemy be, familiar or not, while under Cruciatus or being violated by a cursed blade?

He remembered witnessing her blood, in dainty rivulets curving over her skin to stain the floor boards – a testament to the insidious falsehoods he had been spoon fed his entire life up to that point. He remembered how – instead of feeling triumphant of her pain or disgusted of her flesh and blood – he was filled with an airy sort of PRIDE that Granger never surrendered, not under the Cruciatus, not under the knife, not when his aunt pressed boney knees into her throat. He didn’t know if she had actually stolen anything from Bella’s vault but Hermione never wavered in her assertions that she hadn’t. Not once. She never gave anything away despite the fear in her eyes and the tell-tale tremors of her body. Her defiance had given him strength. Her bravery – so foolish to him so many times before – earned his respect and regard in those long interminable moments. 

His hands had wanted to pull his aunt off of her. His eyes had wanted to look away. He had wanted to scream until the house collapsed. He had wanted to cry at her tears. He had wanted to punch his father in the face for the way he watched her, cold eyes reflecting a dark pleasure in her pain. He had wanted to haul her up from that floor and apparate to somewhere safe.

He just . . . hadn’t wanted her to hurt anymore. Any of them, really. But her especially. 

In those moments, when his mental walls were high and his mind was wholly his with no one the wiser, he realized in all their interactions, no matter how horrible he or his housemates (or even the Weasel) was to her, she never defended herself. She never bowed but she didn’t fight back either, not the way she did when it was someone else being taunted or felled or persecuted. Back then, when it was happening, he had believed it to be her way of conceding to their supremacy as purebloods. Now, he knows it’s because she had principles and refused to entertain their unmerited hubris. 

Even while tortured, cursed and cut and possibly awaiting death at the hands of the Dark Lord, she did not plead or beg for mercy. Her silence was a testament to her strength and resilience. She didn’t need to do or say anything to prove she was equal – if not _better_ \- to any pureblood.

She had always been thus. And she knew it. It would have been a waste of time and her precious energy to try to convince them of something she shouldn’t have had to convince them of in the first place.

Since that night, in the dark, just before troubled sleep takes him, he sometimes thinks of her and of the years he had had a million choices open to him, wondering how it was he could have been so desperate for his father’s love and approval to choose wrongly each and every time, whittling away those million opportunities to grow and be a better version of himself until he had effectively backed into a corner with the only way out barricaded by the Dark Lord himself. He wonders at the circumstances that brought her to his home that night, of the choices she had made and the similar outcome of those choices.

And then he thinks of Mrs. Granger and her “egg donor,” Henrietta, and of how similar their dynamic was to the relationship he has with Lucius. How he’s done everything in his power to please Lucius – even selling his soul to the devil on earth – and never reaching the impossible expectations set out for him. While his mother – the minion – regardless of her own feelings or opinions, followed his father’s lead into danger and ruin, sacrificing Draco along the way (Vow with his god-father notwithstanding). And Snape . . . if he had known about the man’s true allegiance . . . how would that have affected his choices, if at all? Would that knowledge have made any difference? 

And _now_ . . . What of the opportunities he is presented with _now_? How does he prevent himself from falling into bad habits of bad behavior?

He steps forward and bends to touch the blood stains just there, darkened now with time. The stuff doesn’t transfer, doesn’t mark him in any way but he smooths his thumb over the pads of his fingertips as if he can feel the warm liquid texture, his mind lost in the revelation of mis-spilled blood.

****

The crack of his apparition is loud, but he feels a distinct lightness come over him when he finds himself surrounded by the familiar pastel and bold burgundy of the Grangers’ main room. He walks into the dining room, grinning, careful anticipation pushing aside the heavy thoughts of the morning. 

The table is set with two cups, plates, and an array of savory dishes: tea sandwiches of egg salad, shrimp skagen, avocado and salmon on toast, and a simple quiche lorraine. He hears movement in the kitchen and calls out, “You’ve outdone yourself today, Mrs. Granger. I look forward to sampling the quiche in particular.”

He seats himself and nearly swallows his tongue when Granger herself enters the room, framed in the doorway like a sentinel, her mouth and wand drawn. 

She stares him down while he gapes, breathless, for an unknown (endless) amount of time, the tea and food cooling between them. Sweat breaks on his brow, his collar chokes, and the entire expanse of his skin is chilled. 

He licks his parched lips and tries for brevity, for wit or something like it to spite the way his heart seems lodged and spasming in his stomach, “Hello Granger, this is an unexp –“ 

But Granger is having none of it. As he stutters his greeting, she stomps the space between herself and the table and slams her palms down, upsetting the tea service. “What are you doing with my parents?”

He swallows against tears, against laughter, against a scream. He’s not sure which. There’s too much swirling around his head, a maelstrom tearing up the colorful textile of his emotions. She asks, _What are you doing with my parents?_ He hears, _I have no reason to trust a monster like you won’t burn everything I love to ash._

Tentative, wary, he opens his mouth but his voice is barely there and thin as tissue, “What am I –“

Granger’s eyes are boring into his with an intensity that _hurts_ , “Because I am warning you _right now_ that if you plan to hurt them –“

Draco finds it in himself to stand and defend himself, his knees shaking under his weight, “I’m NOT going to –“

But Granger is still talking, almost yelling; and he lets her, the anger in her flushed cheeks, the spark of her eyes is something he has long deserved. “ _IF_ you plan to hurt them, I will find out and I will _EVISCERATE_ you –“

He deserves it. He owes it to her to allow this confrontation, and yet . . . and yet, “FUCK, GRANGER, LET ME –“ _Let me explain, damn it._

But she isn’t interested in listening to him, giving him a chance. He hasn’t _earned_ it. “And the ancient House of Malfoy will cease to have an heir!” His breathing is heavy, his heart in his throat, palms damp and fingers burning for his wand. 

He takes a moment, in the charged quiet that falls with the shadows between them, to study her. She looks as frantic as he feels, her hair tied back but fighting to unravel out of its restraints, her eyes fevered and dark with suspicion. She’s glowing with a sheen of sweat and her hand is shaking around the wand brandished toward him. 

It occurs to him then, distant and somewhat inappropriate, that this is the first time he’s seen her close up in almost two years. She’s still small but healthier than last he saw her – her stature and slight frame the source of constant underestimation, still fierce in her conviction and eloquent in her execution. There’s a new maturity to her face, the stroke of her mouth, the lines of her body . . . a new confidence in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin.

She is exquisite in her protective fury. 

Quiet, purposeful, he grates out, “Will you let me speak?”

Her back straightens as she crosses arms over her chest, all swathed in a sky blue jumper, “What could you possibly have to say that I would actually believe, Malfoy?”

_Nothing. I don’t expect you to trust me, Granger._ “Whether you believe is irrelevant: I have no intention of harming your parents or allowing anyone ELSE to harm them.” This much is true. He’s still trying to understand the instinct and impulse of it. 

By the widening of her eyes, the fall of her shoulders, he knows she feels at a loss. “Then what are you doing? What game are you playing?” 

He struggles for a moment, equally adrift, “ . . . . There is no game, Granger.” 

The fire returns as she tightens her hold on herself, her eyes snapping with it. His nose stings with a phantom pain. “I don’t believe you. I don’t FUCKING believe you. You spent YEARS telling me I was worth less than the mud on your shoes, that my PARENTS and everyone like them - everyone from where I COME FROM - are NOTHING and practically sub-human. Now, all of a sudden, you sit here in my house and play friends with my mum and dad? The muggles you SO HATED you –“ 

He doesn’t want to hear it from her, can’t take it being thrown in his face yet _again_ when he’s already punishing himself enough. “I MADE A MISTAKE!!!! For the rest of my life, I’m going to pay for it but it was a MISTAKE!” 

She sucks at her teeth before holding up one irate finger. “NO. No. You don’t get to dismiss years of bigotry as a MISTAKE, Malfoy. A mistake is forgetting to cast a cooling charm before harvesting fire seeds. Being a Death Eater is a LIFE PLAN. You committed yourself to the lifelong servitude of a megalomaniac because you HATE people like me and want to see us vanish from the Earth. And the worst part of this is that despite EVERYTHING I _defended you_.” She hisses those last two words like a curse. 

Draco is struck mute. _Defended me?_ He’s not sure what she’s referring to. She had spoken for him at his trial, but there’s something in her voice – a hint of _betrayal_ – that suggests something much more pertinent and long standing. 

Her hands lower from her ribs to white-knuckle the chair in front of her. “In sixth year . . . HARRY was practically manic with the idea that you had taken the Dark Mark and were a Death Eater, but I tried to convince him otherwise! You’ve always been an enormous prat but not once did I ever IMAGINE you would throw in with a vile group of murdering rapist cowards.” 

“Granger --“ 

Suddenly, her whole body seems flush and overheated and her eyes are flashing wet. Her chin is trembling and her words crack and break, “And yet, here you sit across from me IN MY HOME, after everything, with the skull and snake darkening your arm.” 

She doesn’t cry. There is moisture gathering there in her eyes but she bites her lip and keeps them from falling through the indomitable force of her will. In another life – one where he hadn’t fucked up so royally or one where he wasn’t so fucked up himself – maybe he could have comforted her. He’s not sure if he wants or needs to. Sighing, “Why take up for me at trial but treat me like this now?” 

“BECAUSE,” she practically wails, hands coming up to hide her face, “keeping you out of Azkaban is one thing but . . . it wasn’t an invitation into my HOUSE, making friendly with my PARENTS!” 

He tries for calm and comes up only with replayed regrets. “I understand your reservations, but I promise I mean no –" 

She moves, swift and sure around the table, her face set as hard as it was before she punched him in third year; but she stumbles before she can reach him, her feet catching on the leg of another chair. Reflex has his hand around her left wrist in a blink and just as quickly releasing when she hisses in pain. 

Clutching her arm to her body, he makes to apologize before the smear of red on his fingers and the stain of it peeking through her sleeve register. Something raw in his heart chafes tenderly. “It hasn’t healed.” 

She recoils from him when he reaches out to . . . he’s not sure. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. “No.” Her fingers rub along the mutilated flesh he can still picture in his mind, the letters angry and bleeding, presently covered by sky blue sleeves. He has the impression she wants nothing more than to scratch. 

His eyes trace the line of her arm to flutter over her shoulder to find her neck and the pale pink line breaking the golden skin at her throat. He thinks even trading places with her somehow would not be enough . . . 

“I wish I could have done more that night –“ 

Granger grinds her teeth and steps up to him, her head craning back to meet his eye, unflinching and righteous, “If you expect gratitude for doing ONE decent thing in a lifetime of reaping torment, you’ve come to the wrong muggle born.” The hard point of a fingertip digs into his chest even as her wand presses into his jugular, her eyes are aggressive and bright. “I have absolutely no illusions that you did what you did out of selflessness or care. Your refusal to identify Harry positively, while admittedly helpful, was just another self-serving action in a lifetime of selfish actions.” 

She’s so close, he can feel the furious heat of her, the slight tremor that runs through her as the tears she’s so valiantly held back finally fall. He balls his hands into fists as her voice softens, “After seeing even a small fragment of the world Voldemort desired, even a _fool_ with the thinnest sliver of conscience would want Harry to win.” She steps back, strands of hair falling into her face and against the curve of her neck. Her wand is still trained on him even as she wipes her face of tears. “I NEVER dismissed you as a fool, Malfoy. And being no fool, you knew Harry couldn’t win if he was dead.” 

Draco wants to run. He wants to turn and walk away and never see her again; but he knows he needs to see this through. He’s not myopic enough anymore to ignore the common denominator in all of his bad choices has been fear. For once, he’s going to face the consequences of his mistakes, no matter how agonizing. No matter how _humbling_. He catches her gaze with his own, bringing down his walls and allowing her in. She’s trustworthy – he knows. She won’t use his words against him, won’t twist what he says or does here to suit her own purpose or ambition. 

He starts, “I don’t want or deserve thanks, Granger. I don’t want or deserve anything from you or your family.” This time, she’s listening raptly. He can tell by the focus of her regard, the stillness of her body. “I won’t deny I took the Dark Mark willingly. I grew up being told it was an honor and privilege to serve the Dark -- Voldemort. My father took the Mark before me, and I was happy to be the youngest offered.” He takes a breath, and she mirrors him, tears still running down her face and the odd sniffle breaking his narrative. Wordlessly, he reaches into his breast pocket to hand her a handkerchief. “It felt good to be _chosen_ for once rather than merely tolerated or reviled; but it didn’t take long before I realized the extent of my naiveté, to see just what Voldemort truly was and what he truly meant in his plans. It wasn’t long before everything I had been told, all the so-called truths I had eaten up and believed in shattered for all the cracks that were already there.” 

Draco could feel the tension in his face begin to relax and soften. His hands hid themselves in his trouser pockets to keep from the assurance of touching her. “There was no glory in it, no honor or justice or righteousness. Voldemort . . . the Death Eaters . . . It was all cowardly, barbaric, deviant, primitive . . . _evil_ – Everything I had been told to abjure in muggles and muggle borns, I could only see in the people closest to me: my father, my aunt and uncle, and . . . _myself_ . . . Every time I look in the mirror, I am _sickened_.” 

He smiles, self-deprecating and ironic. “You’re right not to thank me. Not identifying Potter was the very least I could do. I’m not stupid, despite past behavior to the contrary. I should have seen it all as it was sooner. I should have fought – told my father to stuff the propaganda and shut the fuck up. I should have somehow stopped Voldemort from taking my home. I should have FOUGHT. But I didn’t. I was a fucking coward, and I don’t WANT or DESERVE gratitude from anyone, least of all you, Granger.” 

They stand, locked in a stalemate, as the grand-mother clock ticks and the buzz of some device outside is switched on. There is a series of metallic clicks then the creak of a door. “Hermione!” The clink of metal on a flat surface. “Hermione, dear?” The sound of footsteps. “Something smells delicious. Did you cook lunch?” 

Draco can hear Mrs. Granger’s gasp from behind him, her steps coming to a shuffled halt. Her voice is confused and slightly alarmed, “Mr. Malfoy? What are you doing here so early?” He doesn’t need to see her to know she’s noticed Hermione’s tearstained face. She brushes past him to embrace her daughter, “Are you okay, dear?” Asking both of them, “Is everything alright?” 

Draco doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. They all know: This early tea was an ambush. 

It’s obvious, he thinks, Granger doesn’t want him here, not that he can blame her; though, from what he knows of Mrs. Granger, surely Granger could have expressed it before. He wonders, numbly, if this is where Mrs. Granger and Richard decide he’s no longer welcome in their lives at all before apparating back to the manor, overwhelmingly empty, dejected and lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, sometimes during a transition we experience set backs - this is what happened here. Hermione is letting her trauma make decisions for her and Malfoy is internalizing entirely too much. But NEVER FEAR! The real healing begins next chapter with Draco having a major breakthrough. 
> 
> With that out of the way, **I need YOUR help** with the sequel, specifically, what are some activities / places you'd like to see Hermione and Draco do/go to. It doesn't have to be romantic in nature - in fact, I would rather it WASN'T. I'm thinking mundane things you would do with your friends. Right now I have a running list - some I have concrete ideas for, others that are just . . . suggestions at this point.
> 
> These things can be muggle-related (preference) or magical. I'm trying to stay away from things that have been done a million times. So HIT ME with your suggestions! Thank you all!


	9. Full Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forces of chance bring Hermione exactly where she DOESN'T want to be. Draco has an epiphany.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST: Thank you all for every activity suggestion I received! I'm in the planning stages for the sequel and anticipate writing the entirety for Nanowrimo this year!
> 
> SECOND: There are no real warnings for this chapter save for depictions of PTSD which will be throughout.
> 
> THIRD: Mood Music: Fix Me by 10 years

Hermione loves this time of year when winter is aging and spring is on the cusp of arriving. She takes in the crisp air, the lingering snow, the puddles of melt and the increasing number of people on the street, stretching their legs and similarly enjoying the improving weather. A walk through the neighborhood seems a simple enough prospect, though it has taken her a full two hours to gather the courage to undertake it alone.

A little hand tangles in a few straggling curls from her braid and _pulls_.

_Okay, not so alone._ Teddy is secured to her torso in a sling and is gazing around with interest, mumbling nonsense words at times, barely discernible ones at others. His weight is a warm little reminder of everything she’s fought for, everything she wants to prFotect. Her fingers gentle his hand from her hair, only breaking a few strands as she issues a quiet admonishment, utterly ruined by her undeniable amusement. 

The one-nearly-two year old blows a spit bubble that bursts into slobber, dotting along her jawline. She just laughs and ruffles his –currently- brown hair, subduing the ever-fervent wish that Tonks and Professor Lupin could be here to see him. 

Shaking her head and biting her lower lip to stay the tremble threatening there, she diverts her thoughts to more sober faire. The subject she comes back to, day after day and nearly hour after hour. Such is the momentum of her guilt.

It has been three weeks since her confrontation with Malfoy. Her mother had been confused at first, cycling to livid with the realization of Hermione’s oily deed, then settling on a sad brand of resignation Hermione had never hoped to inspire. Her father had looked at her with such disappointment, the pit of her stomach had gone cold and leaden. Later, it had infuriated her that they hadn’t reacted . . . _more_. And then she realized how fucked up HER reaction was. 

She had gone to her therapy session that day feeling so conflicted she spent her hour with Dr. Ufuoma alternately crying and raging, hitting every available surface savagely with a foam bat before cowering in a corner and hiding her face. By the end, she was drained of everything except remorse. 

The Thursday following, she had a joint session with both of her parents. Dr. Ufuoma suggested inviting Malfoy to one . . . or – if Hermione wasn’t comfortable with that suggestion – having a joint session with the only two people in the world who really knew the extent of what she suffered in captivity – Ron and Harry.

Hermione had told the doctor it was something to think about as – presently – neither party was available.. Harry was in Bali at the moment and Ron was knee-deep in wedding preparations.

Dr. Ufuoma had ended the session with a reminder that she should also give thought to speaking to Malfoy again, that there was unfinished business there that seemed to be haunting here. It was then she began to comb back to everything Malfoy had said . . . every denial he had made. 

She had been surprised at how much she remembered equally with how much seemed muted and hard to recall due to the levels of fury blinding and deafening her to his pleas. He had said he was sickened at his own reflection even now and – for some reason – she can recall the exact hue of his eyes, the tortured expression on his face when he said it despite the curve of his lip. He had been uncomfortable, she thinks now, laying himself bare that way . . . _vulnerable_. How much strength and trust it took to tell _her_ . . . 

Not once did he sneer at her. Not once did he try to justify his actions as right. He had called it a mistake (an understatement, certainly) but. . . . everything he said seemed in line with what her mother and father had told her about his behavior recently. Maybe, it was true . . . maybe he _had_ changed. 

And he didn’t run away – not from her words, not from her wand, not even when she moved to hit him. Instead, he had caught her when her feet became tangled together. He hadn’t recoiled from her blood smeared on his hand. Instead, he had asked about the wound and looked . . . horrified when she confirmed his suspicions that the cursed blade his aunt had used to mark her prevented healing.

If she had heard correctly, he even promised that he would protect her parents from harm not only by himself but anyone else. She didn’t know how he presumed to back up such a statement but there it was . . . Draco Malfoy, ex Death Eater, self-proclaimed Chosen of Voldemort, promising to protect a couple of muggles.

And while his behavior and the sentiments he had communicated were indeed . . . different . . . almost brave considering his upbringing and history, she just didn’t understand how she was supposed to believe him and let go all the hurt and anger and fear and pain he had caused, encouraged, and tried to normalize. She didn’t know how NOT to blame him when he was right there with the Mark on his arm, looking down his nose at her. It was something she had been working on with Dr. Ufuoma quite intensely for the last few weeks. 

Her mother had – voluntarily – assured Draco that while she bore no ill will or blame toward him for Hermione’s actions and words, it was probably best if they didn’t meet for a few weeks while she took care of things at home. They wrote to each other regularly – if the owl post was any indication – her father also a recipient of quite a few letters delivered by the overly familiar short-eared owl, Guinevere. 

She should have felt better about that than she did. Instead, in addition to remorse, she felt ashamed and disappointed in herself. Because for all her worry that Malfoy had ulterior motives, she truly did not want to disrupt her mother’s teas with Malfoy. 

And while she had apologized to her mother (for messing with her schedule AND Malfoy’s; luring (an allegedly innocent) Malfoy into an unprovoked attack; and disregarding every opportunity to air any concerns _before_ resorting to underhanded means) and her father (for acting without due consideration for parties involved and parties around), she knows she owes Malfoy one too.

Because it occurred to her, who else does Malfoy have to talk to besides his mother? What emotional outlets? What friends? From what she had been able to glean through visits with her magical friends, the Malfoys hadn’t been seen in public for quite some time save for the blatant tea date at Brahma’s between Malfoy and her mother.

Teddy takes her attention momentarily when he squeals and points, “Cah! Cah!” 

Hermione giggles and dutifully adjusts the little knit hat he’s knocked askew. “Yes, darling. It’s a car.”

He turns to her, questioning. “Boo?”

Slowly, she corrects. “Bllluueee.”

The tot settles down to observing (mostly) quiet again. His eyes are keen to take in everything, catching on bright colors and intricate shapes, sometimes trying out a word he knows or has heard enough to identify. Hermione smiles softly though her thoughts are circling back to Malfoy.

She owes him an apology; but she isn’t ready to see him again. Not yet. But she _wants_ to do the right thing (always) and writing . . . well, writing out her penitence doesn’t seem appropriate. Not when the trespass was committed in person and the initial deception with a note.

Letting out a low huff and shaking the confusion out of her head, she rounds her arms about the bundle at her front and lifts slightly. Teddy is a solid baby/toddler and Hermione’s back is starting to protest the new weight, and despite the unusually warm weather, there is still a marked chill in the air. She looks down at Teddy whose eyes are glazing over slightly beneath visibly struggling eyelids. He’s drooling on her jumper, painting her pink top a dark magenta in one spot but she doesn’t mind. 

They’ve been out for awhile now – nearly a half hour, and it’s nearing lunchtime. There’s a little bistro up ahead that she’s been to with Dean and Seamus a few months back. 

Visualizing the interior, her mind begins a tally of exits, the shortest routes to them, and contingencies. She visualizes any number of scenarios in which Teddy might be kidnapped or they might be otherwise attacked – both Muggle style and magical; and with great effort, she slams a mental door shut to quiet the racing thoughts of escape. Utilizing breathing exercises Dr. Ufuoma taught her, she goes in and finds a table, taking off her hat and scarf, adjusting the sling and putting down the baby changing bag. A few pounds lighter, she pats Teddy’s bum whilst narrating her actions, goes up to the counter to order and pay – a falafel wrap with side salad, crisps and tea for her, penne with cheese and juice for Teddy. 

She takes the receipt with her number and makes her way back to her table when a shock of white catches her eye and her heart performs a kamikaze dive from her chest to the floor. _Inhale one-two-three-four, hold one-two-three-four-five-six-seven, exhale one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight_. When she feels in control again, reaching her table she casts a discreet glance over her shoulder. There - seated near the side windows, facing the back of the store, a mere twenty paces away - the broad back of a man with a familiar shade of white-blonde hair. He looks like he could be Malfoy but he’s wearing muggle clothing – a pull over and worn jeans with trainers. He looks to the side, gazing out a near window and there he is: Draco Malfoy in profile. 

If she had doubts, the features reflected in the glass crushes them.

Hermione rushes to sit and angles her body away from him, taking care not to trap Teddy against the table edge. She wonders what – if anything – she should do and starts digging through the changing bag for her wand (completely forgetting it’s actually in her pocket), too rattled to think of performing a subtle wandless Accio. The jerky movements around him, have Teddy humming and mouthing her hair, discontented but also curious.

She finds herself slowing down, glancing into Teddy’s big brown eyes, thinking that while she doesn’t exactly have faith in the God of her parents (doesn’t have faith in any god at all actually), she cannot deny the strange coincidence that has sent both her and Draco Malfoy into the same muggle bistro at the same time on the same day just after she had been thinking about him while caring for his young cousin.

Her instinct to run suddenly kicks in and as her nervousness ramps up and Teddy starts squirming and whimpering, she runs her fingers through his hair and down his back to calm them both. She tells herself that the war is over; Malfoy poses no immediate danger; but a part of her still can’t believe that, even after two years. 

Her thoughts are dominated by his proximity and the fact their number hasn’t been called yet. She glances back at him repeatedly (so much so, she begins envisioning her removal from the restaurant) then the growing number of patrons – both seated and forming a queue. She raises her eyes to the ceiling as if asking for divine intervention – the kind that will separate them by miles rather than feet.

All for naught. Malfoy remains. 

Teddy is getting more and more upset, breaking out into a repeated mantra of “Mimimimimimi” broken only by an onslaught of spit fueled raspberries. He throws his head back and goes rigid before arching a bit more, the sling going tight around Hermione’s back and shoulder - rubbing a burn across the side of her neck - and holding out his little hands toward Malfoy’s table, hair going white blond beneath his little knit hat. 

No one but Hermione notices. 

Suddenly, Teddy straightens, smacking his head against Hermione’s chin. He’s squirming even more strongly, kicking his little legs against Hermione’s stomach and hips. “Okay, Teddy. Okay.” Hermione speaks softly, brandishing a wet cloth to wipe against his drool splattered mouth. Little hands come up and slap both of her cheeks, his wide eyes peering into hers as he chews on his lip. 

Sighing, she wordlessly stands, gathers her things and the changing bag, staggering reluctantly toward Malfoy’s table. 

He still hasn’t noticed them, his head bowed over a considerable length of parchment (at least four feet by the amount in the roll). There’s a plate of crumbs near his right hand, the fork turned over the rim and a steaming cup of fresh tea near the top of the parchment. 

Gathering her courage and steeling her nerves, Hermione edges into the opposite seat, the changing bag collapsing to the floor nearest the window, her other hand supporting Teddy’s bottom through the sling. She can’t muster a smile even as she mutters, “Hello Malfoy. I hope you don’t mind sharing a table.”

She doesn’t say _with me_ because she’s afraid he will immediately turn them away just to spite her – a muggle born. She doesn’t look at him, focusing on maneuvering Teddy from the sling, so she doesn’t see if he sneers.

Random people are beginning to seat themselves at the empty tables around them. Someone pulls their chair roughly against the tile floor, causing a loud grating noise. She jumps, shielding Teddy with her body and holding him tightly with one arm, her free hand reaching for a wand in her sleeve that isn’t there. 

Malfoy murmurs that it’s okay, it’s just a chair. “You’re suffocating the child, Granger.” 

She swallows, turning to face him as she gentles her hold on the toddler, whose face has since crumbled into quiet sobs from the fright he felt from her, his eyes wide and dark with fear. Hugging the boy, she shushes him lightly, smiling into his little face and assuring in a low voice that everything is fine. There’s nothing to fear. 

She feels like such a hypocrite.

The man at the till calls her number. She mutters an “excuse me” to the table before hefting Teddy in her arms again and making her way to the counter. With Teddy perched on a hip with one arm and their tray balanced in the other, she carefully picks her way back to Malfoy. Paying the man no mind, she drops the tray without spilling anything then searches the perimeter for a high chair. Before she can step away to get it, Malfoy is there, placing one near her designated seat. 

Surprised, she whispers a thank you before settling the unsettled Teddy and strapping him in. Running a hand through the ever loosening strands of her hair, she gingerly sits down again, her body pointedly aimed toward Teddy as she sets up his lunch. The boy is quite proficient at using a spoon and fork though still quite messy. She digs into the changing bag and brandishes a plastic bib, securing it around his neck and reminding him that she expects him to use his manners. 

She pretends she doesn’t hear Malfoy’s snort from across the table. She also pretends that she doesn’t feel his eyes on her.

From the bag, she pulls out a pack of sanitary wipes, a cotton towel and a small container of puff cereal. She wipes down the bistro high chair with a sanitary wipe, places the folded cotton towel on one side of the tray and keeps the container of puffs near her - just in case. Teddy is fairly vibrating with anticipation of his food when he sees her lift the bowl of penne and cheese onto his tray. He has one hand ready to dive into the pasta when she makes a disapproving sound and hands him his favorite fork – the one with the green and blue handle.

His hair immediately turned green, his eyes blue. 

Again, no one notices but the confirmed magical folk in the room.

“Modified Notice-me-not charm?” Malfoy’s drawl is low and gruff, his eyes telling her he is intrigued if not impressed. His hands smooth over the parchment he had been reading. 

Her eyes flutter over him, not really seeing anything but his fingers trembling slightly over the lines written there. “Yes.” A breath. Her eyes find his as her stomach bottoms out. “Look, Malfoy, I didn’t know you were here. I saw you after we had ordered and found a table.”

He steeples his fingers over his mouth, watching her. “And yet, here you sit. Uninvited.”

She deserves that. The last time he had seen her, she had lured him into her home under false pretenses and proceeded to attack him . . . after two years of virtually no contact. She’s actually surprised he isn’t in more of a snit. 

The Malfoy she had known would have made a scene, bribed management, and had her thrown out . . . or simply cursed her and stormed out. Staring at the man across the table with his plain tea and casual muggle clothes, she realizes she doesn’t know this man at all.

“I wanted to apologize for the ruse and the note. For yelling at you and being horrid. You didn’t deserve that sort of judgement or treatment, and I genuinely regret my behavior and hope you can forgive me.” 

It’s a boxy, stiff little speech, but Hermione finds she means it just the same. There are so many barbs between them, so many broken fences and singed bridges, still-fresh bruises and bleeding wounds acquired over the years of their non-relationship. And while she isn’t holding her breath for signs of remorse from _him_. She thinks, maybe, any apology – any small amount of forgiveness might begin to clear the dark spaces, mend the broken foundations, or start the healing process. Even if they will most likely never be anything resembling friends.

His eyes widen and lips purse as he nods in her peripheral though whether just in acknowledgement or acceptance of her regret, she doesn’t know nor ask. Teddy is laughing at nothing and muttering about his “’oodles” being “goob”. His cheeks are painted a ghastly neon orange from the cheese sauce while he’s foregone the fork to grab fistfuls of noodles to stuff in his mouth.

“May I ask how you’ve acquired a very small metamorphagus?” 

She looks at him sharply to find him leaning back in his chair, gazing at her with soft eyes, his mouth curved up into a half-smirk that is neither snide nor mocking. With blonde strands feathered to the side and falling into his eyes, wearing muggle clothing and an almost _pleasant_ expression, Hermione has never seen Draco Malfoy look so _relaxed_. Ever.

The realization is stunning. And sad. Because she has known him since they were _eleven years old_ , and even then there was a notable tension in his carriage.

Clearing her throat, she turns her attention to Teddy, just in time to take his bowl before the child upends it and the contents on his head. “I’m babysitting.” Then, because it needs to be said, “Malfoy, allow me to introduce your second cousin, Edward Lupin. We call him ‘Teddy.’”

Teddy is laughing hysterically at the game of ‘keep away’ Hermione is playing with his bowl of penne, more interested in being entertained than eating at this point. She finds herself giggling with the boy, mock grimacing when his hair turns back to a rich brown mirroring her own. 

Wiping his face with the cotton towel, she reminds him of his manners again before feeding him a forkful of pasta.

“Your lunch is getting cold, Granger.” 

The reminder brings her attention to just how famished she is. She hasn’t eaten a thing besides a slice of toast this morning before Andromeda arrived with Teddy . . . at six AM. She glances dumbly at her plate – a lovely looking display of soft tortilla and falafel, green lettuce with red tomato and purple raddichio - before continuing to feed Teddy herself. “It’s fine. I’ll eat when Teddy is satisfied.”

She hears the whisper and rustle of parchment rolling and thinks Malfoy must be preparing to leave. His cup is half empty, he hasn’t ordered anything else to eat, and the unexpected company she presents him with is obviously not welcome.

Surreptitiously, she watches without actually looking at him as he packs his quill and newly rolled parchments into the duffle on the floor. When he’s done, she finally takes a moment to face him while Teddy chews, making quiet “mmm” sounds. She has her mouth open to bid him farewell when he reaches across the table and eases the bowl and fork from her hands. 

“Eat. I’ll mind Edward.”

Incredulous, she stares at him. “Do you have any idea how to mind a child?”

His expression turns familiarly arrogant but without the bite of jealousy or anger. “While I may not have experience with children in general, I’m aware of the procedure by which humans – regardless of age – usually eat, Granger.” He scoots his chair a little closer to Teddy’s high chair, aiming his body toward the toddler. “Besides, you’re right here. We aren’t moving. If I do something incorrectly, I’m sure you will let me know.”

She’s not sure how to react to any of this so she focuses on her food, glancing up every now and again to trace the movements of Malfoy’s arms as he reaches the fork into the bowl, scrapes up some noodle fragments, deposits it In Teddy’s open mouth, before returning the fork to the bowl again. His posture is impeccable, but it’s his face that Hermione finds most interesting. He’s gazing at his cousin with an almost tender look, a small smile painted on his lips when he isn’t speaking soft nonsense to the boy. 

Her appetite leaves her suddenly, not even halfway through her meal. Shaky and confused, she wipes her mouth, digs out another sanitary wipe and starts working on cleaning Teddy’s hands and face, bib and high chair tray. There is sauce in his hair – already dried, and there are a few stains that weren’t caught by the bib. Hermione tuts softly and ultimately decides he doesn’t need a change of clothes. 

Gathering the rubbish, she thanks Malfoy for minding Teddy while she ate. His gaze is enigmatic and watchful in an unsettling but not necessarily uncomfortable way. After cleaning up, she dons the sling, her scarf, and wraps Teddy in his hat, coat, and gloves. She lifts Teddy into the sling with only a small struggle then reaches for the changing bag, but Malfoy is already shouldering it along with his duffle. 

Hermione protests that he doesn’t have to do that, that she can handle everything herself; but he pins her with flashing gray eyes and a commanding, “I’m walking you home, Granger.” 

Teddy is blowing raspberries again, his little head twisted as far as he can to watch Malfoy. 

Hermione is also watching him, feeling off-kilter and wondering if she somehow landed in an alternate universe where Draco Malfoy is actually _nice_ and _considerate_. Her feet follow him, huddling into herself as she passes through the door he opens for her. It doesn’t escape her notice he takes up position closest to the road, a living barrier between her and Teddy and passing cars.

“How did you know I was going home?” She could have been out shopping for all he knew or running errands or on her way to visit someone.

He doesn’t look at her but points at the flagging Teddy, his little face smooshed against her chest as his glazed eyes watch the world go by. “Edward is obviously in need of a nap. I thought you might want to put him down somewhere familiar to him.”

“I thought you weren’t experienced with children?”

“I’m not but I was a child myself once.”

She nods, her tongue feeling dry and sticky against her palate. “I . . . really meant what I said earlier, Malfoy. I’m truly sorry for how I attacked you.”

He adjusts the bags on his shoulder and huffs, “Merlin, Granger, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

The sting of tears is unexpected and irrational, she knows. She blinks them away with effort. “I . . . Okay.” Teddy snores softly as his eyes close and his little body goes limp. She absently strokes his back through the taut material of the sling. The silence is almost painful despite the noise of the people, machines, and atmosphere around them. “Did you mean what you said? About not allowing yourself or anyone else to harm my parents?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No stutter. No mockery. 

She nods, accepting that it is possible for people to change . . . even purebloods. Even Malfoy. “My mother . . . she mentioned you’ve been to Dad’s boxing club?”

He huffs a rough laugh that is more self-deprecating than amused. “He said I was tense and needed an outlet. I’ve found that he was right.” The scrape of their shoes against pavement seems loud in the ensuing space between words. 

“I see.” She takes him in with a sidelong glance. He’s taller than she remembers though last she saw him, he was hunched and in stocks. The pull-over is oversized but can’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders. She has no doubt he’s solid beneath the clothes and his trousers are well-fitted.

“Do you babysit often?” His eyes, when focused on her like this, seem to take in everything as if he’s searching for something but reluctant to just ask.

“With Harry gone, I try to take Teddy for a few hours once in a while to give Andromeda a break. Luna helps out too. So does Neville and Ginny.” She smiles a little sadly, remembering Tonks and Remus and all the things they will miss. “We try to be her village.”

He suddenly seems uncomfortable with the topic. His mouth pressing into a thin line as his attention goes to his walking feet, his hand tightening on the straps along his shoulder. 

She doesn’t want to pry, isn’t even sure if she wants to know anything about Draco Malfoy, but . . . “Have you thought about introducing yourself to her?"

“Do you think she would accept me?” The question is loaded. She can feel the weight of every double meaning and nuance. She chooses to answer it at face value, not quite ready or willing to address the subtext. 

“She’s already lost enough family. I don’t think she would reject you if you approach her with good will and a genuine interest in getting to know her.”

He doesn’t say anything and that uncomfortably unbending silence falls on them again. She tells herself she’s done fighting it. She won’t invite him into another conversation. The apology has been given. Her obligations have been met. 

But the numerous questions swirling in her head won’t leave her alone as she stares ahead and tries – without success – to ignore his familiar strangeness. “Since when do you hang about muggle London?”

He scoffs before glancing at her with one of those pointed interested looks she has yet to puzzle out. “Since I would rather not be at home.” Eyes now aimed front, he sighs, “According to the Prophet, it’s been some time since you’ve been seen in wizarding London.”

She suddenly wishes she had not braided her hair back, so that she could hide behind the bulk. “No. I haven’t.” She stops there. She doesn’t owe him any confessions or explanations. 

They are stopped at a crosswalk when a cyclist approaching from behind rings a high-pitched bell and she screams and fairly _banks_ to the ground, falling on her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around the sleeping tot against her chest. She isn’t going to crush him. She is still mostly upright. Her breath comes in ragged gulps and her eyes are seeing flashes of red and green and white as she tries to understand the world around her again. 

There’s someone calling her name from far away and a rushing sound that reminds her of when she and her parents went white water rafting in France. Then, it’s like a tuning fork buzzing and she can hear again, everyday sounds of autos, shoes on pavement, bicycle wheels, and a hundred conversations break over her as her eyes finally focus on Malfoy kneeling before her.

“Granger?” He’s not touching her and his gray eyes are weirdly blank – _Occlumency_. The bags have been thrown carelessly to the ground near her feet and his hands are hovering near her shoulders – not quite touching her but ready to catch her should she fall forward onto Teddy.

Merlin, this was the second time in the last hour or so he had seen her come unhinged for a little unexpected noise. How utterly mortifying. 

Blushing furiously, she stands with some effort, her legs feeling a little boneless, a little shaky. To ground herself, she checks Teddy and shifts his head from thrown back to resting against her again. She doesn’t look at Malfoy as he moves to take up their bags again, doesn’t look at him as they cross the street. Doesn’t look at him when he asks – blithely – what she’s been up to the last two years.

They are almost to her house – the knowledge that he is also aware of this still grates, almost as much as his apparent ongoing interest in her well-being. Because, despite the apology and the rather pointed civility of their interactions today, Hermione is still not fully convinced he doesn’t have some ulterior motive – whether negative or not. 

She decides to be blunt. “Why the interest, Malfoy? What’s your angle?”

He whistles under his breath and runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking worn. “I don’t have an ‘angle’, Granger. I’m not here to hurt, cheat, use, humiliate, or otherwise harm anyone. I’m not acting a part or trying to deceive.” His eyes are a dark slate as they begin to slow, approaching her doorstep. Children run past, her neighbor calls after her, waving. She responds absently, her attention on him.

“Then . . . I’m at a loss. What happened to make you . . . like this?” Her hands splay out toward him, trying to encompass everything that is no longer predictable, everything that has changed. 

He hands over the changing bag with a vulnerable open expression on his face, visibly willing her to understand. “Because I . . . Granger, it’s . . .” He chuckles, vulnerable but also purposeful, a bare kind of gravity in his presence keeping her attention. “You and your parents . . . have been a revelation.”

His smile before he leaves is exquisitely regretful, painted in strokes of evident self-recrimination and hope. 

Hermione watches him disappear with a whispered disillusionment charm, her entire body feeling like a violently shaken bottle of pop.

***

That evening, Draco is trying to review the legal documents his solicitors had forwarded to him. He had tried to read through them at lunch, getting about halfway before Hermione Granger ambushed him again (a true testament to how much safer he feels in the muggle world as opposed to his own), this time with a bundled up tot-sized buffer between them and a more congenial attitude (though only just). 

He gets through the copy once then begins again, this time with a clean sheet of parchment and charmed quill ready to take dictated notes. Even as he reads, his mind is replaying the afternoon with Granger and little Edward.

It had been an inkling after their last encounter weeks ago, but now Draco is sure: Hermione Granger is far from “doing well.” Not that he blames her. Not that he hadn’t expected there to be _some_ damage. 

He can’t help torture himself with the question of just how much of that damage is his direct responsibility, how much he had born witness to, how deeply it cuts into her. She had always seemed so untouchable, only ruffled and vengeful when it was someone else in the line of wand fire. It’s . . . unexpectedly difficult to see her struggling.

And yet, she (and her mother) had apologized to _him_.

Before . . . before - with his father turning his ear, the rise of Voldemort and the resulting bloodshed – he would have dismissed such sentiments as weakness, proof that he was better, stronger, superior, worthier . . . _deserving_. How much humility, did it take, he wonders, to look at the man who once took pleasure in your every pain and torment, was proud of causing some of it and encouraged the rest then apologize to him for taking the pound of flesh he owes you a hundred times over?

He simply cannot fathom the fortitude inherent in such a feat.

In general, he had always been taught – through example as well as vocal education – that family comes first, a Malfoy’s self-interest is always paramount, and one should always take the path of least resistance when faced with an obstacle to the first two precepts of life. 

Along the same vein of logic, in Slytherin house, one never apologized, no matter how harmful or self-serving the trespass. It was expected that housemates would use and backstab and blackmail and extort for whatever reason. There was no need or want for apologies, because the injured party would always reap a swift and fierce revenge. That was simply the way their relationships operated – whether friend, foe or romantic partner. 

It was understood and tacitly agreed that all the secret machinations and manipulations would remain – always – within the dungeon walls, fostering a strong sense of loyalty – if not truly to each other then to the commitment of hiding the cracks in the ranks from inferior houses. All part and parcel of the pureblood bent toward exclusivity. Draco can see that now.

His family operated in much the same way, he realized. His parents and relatives never apologizing to each other nor anyone else for any reason, no matter how egregious the proven sin. It simply was not done; after all, they are pureblooded - how could they be anything other than _completely right and proper_?

It’s why he isn’t too surprised or hurt that his “friends” (minions would probably be more accurate) ceased communication with him after the war’s end. Labeled as a turncoat was bad enough in their eyes, particularly those with strong Death Eater ties; but to be imprisoned as a criminal (eventual pardon notwithstanding)? Surely, his family and house would have fared better had he been killed.

Sometimes – less frequently now – he had wondered if they might be right.

So, Draco isn’t accustomed to receiving or accepting apologies or simple kindnesses. Not without an expectation attached. Mrs. Granger had never asked anything of him save his honesty. Granger only wanted assurance of his motives in befriending her parents – whether her apology was accepted or not. Both requests were thoroughly understood as consequences for his past actions and attitude, neither particularly hard to give beyond that he was unaccustomed to giving it.

He smirks to himself, swishing his wand to summon a certain book from a nearby shelf.

Observing Granger through their time at the bistro and walking afterwards, he had been struck by her eyes – wild despite a mask of normality, her movements – frantic, constant, fidgeting, and stilted as if her brain was too full or too fast or too blurred to commit to one action or stillness. It all reminded him unnervingly of Mad Eye Moody, consumed by his need for vigilance and impulse for battle.

The only time she had truly been focused and steady was when she was sharing her regret and when she was feeding Edward – her hands and spirit seemingly at rest with the occupation of caring for someone else. It also hadn’t escaped him – in the moments of outright panic – Granger’s instinct was to protect Edward first, positioning herself as a barrier between the boy and any oncoming threat. 

Even while she partook of her lunch (at his behest no less), her hands seemed unsure of the motions – picking up the seasoning multiple times but doing nothing with it, moving her food about on her plate without taking bites, absently placing and replacing her napkin on her lap. In the end, she barely ate a quarter of her plate and barely drunk of her tea before she set her fork down, one finger pushing one end back and forth while Draco finished feeding a flagging toddler.

She had appeared healthier than that night at the manor – her figure far too thin and pale, so that was a comfort. And her strength and passion were still there, burning behind her eyes; but now, she was guarded and quick to suspect danger despite all signs to the contrary. 

Which made her silent if reluctant acceptance of his help – with feeding Edward, walking her home, and keeping her outward spells of anxiety between them – all the more precious to him.

And more than he deserves from her. 

After running through the legal documents a third time, marking corrections and addendums and points of negotiation, he rolls it up, writes up a memo, shrinks and packs it all up in a small addressed package.

There is a stack of correspondence at his left hand, the topmost advertising the sender is his father. He ignores it and the rest, rising to stretch then leaving to ready himself for another round of exercise to tame the unrest crawling beneath his skin.

Later, as he runs around the Malfoy properties and his mind goes blissfully blank of his problems and plans and self-loathing, he realizes the significance of Granger’s gesture and what it means for him. 

Repudiating his upbringing, hating his father, building relationships in the muggle world – these are surface things that prove nothing. It doesn’t require anything of him to say, “I was wrong to follow Voldemort. I know now that muggles, muggle-borns, and half-bloods are not inferior.” Nothing changes if he refuses to entertain his father’s requests for visitation. Truly, his relationships with Mr. and Mrs. Granger, the boys at the boxing club – they only benefit him.

He slows to a jog, his breath going uncoordinated as his chest burns and palms fist. 

If he wants to prove to himself and the world that at least one Malfoy has changed, that he’s worth the leniency and kindness bestowed upon him, that he’s not a spoiled, bigoted prat too full of himself to contribute anything valuable, he’s going to have to face those he has wronged. 

He needs to sacrifice his pride to communicate the darkness he brought into this world through word, deed, and inaction. He needs to find the courage to lay his soul bare, ask for forgiveness he doesn’t deserve, and pray that his victims have mercy.

And Granger is first on his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: It's another interlude!!! Narcissa has a much needed sit down talk with her son.
> 
> If you'd like to get an idea of what's coming in the sequel (because this story is almost over . . . just a few more chapters left!), my theme song for it is Crystalline by Poets of the Fall. That's all I'm gonna say . . .


	10. Interlude III:   The Taste of Cucumber Dill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Narcissa confronts Draco about his involvement with the Grangers. Hermione has a request for her parents. Helen gets an invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place the day before Ron's wedding and is very much a set-up chapter for the rest of the story (some aspects will also carry over to the sequel). I will be working on the sequel for Nanowrimo so please don't go looking for it until after November. We still have a few chapters to this volume XD. 
> 
> Mood music: Voices by Saosin

Narcissa is already seated and navigating the breakfast plates when Draco arrives in the sun room – a lovely alcove of floor to ceiling windows that overlook the extensive (and award winning) Malfoy Manor gardens. He murmurs a “Good morning, Mother” before seating himself and glancing through the glass at the world outside.

Signs of spring are apparent in patches of green and fledgling leaves peeking through a thin sheet of snow – more water than ice now. The hedges will need to be brushed free of lingering snow and the entire grounds assessed for snow mold before the entirety of the grounds can be summarily manicured. Though magic has been imbued into the soil, there is only so much it can do against the forces of nature – a most powerful magic all its own. 

He knows from years of experience and observations, soon enough the monochrome of white snow, gray branches and mere hints of green will become a veritable rainbow of flora and fauna, hummingbirds, butterflies, and other pollinators. 

Already a few birds are flying about the trees, twittering their working songs, no doubt settling in after a long absence; and the peacocks have been freed from their pens to roam the thawing grounds. 

He turns his attention to his mother who is busy rearranging the tea service, filling her plate of today’s offerings, then stirring her tea and taking up her napkin. She looks like winter with her silvery-blond hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. Her demeanor is stiff, formal – even with just the two of them and the outdoors as witnesses, her expression neutral . . . cold.

Her dressing gown is a becoming lilac with silver brocade creating a frost-like pattern over the silk. Slippers of ivory and silver adorn her feet, possibly reflecting the night gown beneath the robe. She is poised, statuesque pureblood perfection. A veritable queen of ice. 

His heart aches looking at her. Pureblood families are traditionally reserved, believing outward affection to be needless frippery and harmfully weak. And though he knows he was a wanted child and endlessly loved, his mother has always been reticent in showing the emotion. Even when he was still in nursery, her involvement in his upbringing was limited to watching him for short moments from the doorway and directing his nanny. Rarely did she interact with him personally or closely until he was well past toddlerhood, and even then, physical and vocal warmth was only sparely bestowed.

His father hadn’t really acknowledged his existence until he was potty trained, could speak in full sentences, and follow simple commands.

He can’t help but contrast the memories of his own childhood against the palpable love Granger had showered upon little Edward, his cousin. In the brief time they had spent together at that little muggle bistro, he had observed Granger smoothing the boy’s hair, wiping his mouth, touching his chin, smiling at him with soft eyes and caressing his chubby, small fingers. Even when he was secure to her in that strange circular cloth, her arms had held him closer. She had been attentive to his every need, even when in the grips of panic – her body folding around his small frame to take whatever violence she perceived, to save him.

And Edward Isn’t even her child. 

Granger, he muses, would be an excellent mother one day. 

He takes up the morning Prophet folded neatly and resting near his left, trying to ignore the inner conflict of his thoughts on Granger’s parenting skills versus his own mother’s. There are two articles about Potter’s travels and something about Weasley that he doesn’t care to read, one mention of Granger’s “mysterious disappearance” from the wizarding world. He scoffs to himself, what nonsense. The rest of the first page is a running tally of ministry positions up for election; and apparently, he’s currently having a secret affair with Pansy Parkinson per Rita Skeeter. Never mind that he hasn’t seen nor heard from the chit for almost two years.

Narcissa gives a discreet cough, the clinking of silverware against china seeming to echo in the stillness between them. “You’re looking quite handsome in your robes today, dear. Are you going out again today?”

He doesn’t drop the paper, doesn’t look at her. “I have some business concerns to take care of.” It’s mostly true, though only if viewed under a certain angle; and usually, his mother would accept that answer out of hand – unconcerned for his actual movements and uninterested in his actions-at-large. 

Unfortunately, today seems to have dawned quite differently.

“In muggle London?” He hears the very whisper of a slurp, the tell-tale scent of coffee, the barest tinkle of cup and saucer.

He suppresses a sigh, glances up from the newspaper, “No. I’m going to pay a visit to the Ministry. Shacklebolt has finally given me permission to search the archives.”

“Oh?” Here eyes are wide and vacuous, a sure sign of her waning interest. “What are you searching for, dear? Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

Draco sincerely doubts that. His mother is brilliant, subtle, and ruthless; however, she would strongly disapprove of what he is planning, what he has already put in motion. Hesitantly, he decides to be diplomatic rather than deflect. “It’s something of a personal project, Mother; but I will come to you if I have any difficulties.” It’s not a lie. He just doesn’t anticipate having difficulties.

Nodding, Narcissa takes up her cutlery to slice up a bit of breakfast ham. “Does this project involve your father?”

“No.” He stuffs his mouth with sausage, hating the way she always refers to that man as his anything. The less said about Lucius, the better. Particularly, where his current employment is concerned. Because it really _doesn’t_ involve Lucius. Not the way she insinuates.

Tutting, his mother chastises, “Smaller bites, my dragon.” She pours a little more milk into her coffee – apparently finding it too bitter – before tasting again and humming softly in approval. “Have you responded yet to his last letter?”

Draco doggedly makes a show of reading the paper, not really seeing the words and knowing his mother is trying to bait him. “Whose letter?”

He can feel the weight of her gaze, a cold tingling in his fingers. Her tone, when she speaks, is pitched to warn. “Your father’s.”

Playing dumb probably isn’t the best course of action; however, “Lucius? No. I have not.”

There are long moments of silence between them bridged by the sounds of the manor settling, the rustle of the paper under his hands, the clink and whisper of his mother taking breakfast. It is obvious he is not planning to say more, and Narcissa is no fool. “You’re not going to?” It is more statement than question, and though he can’t see her, Draco can hear the deflated brand of despair in her voice. His chest is an expansive void as he lays the boundary down one more time.

“Not at this moment, no. Nor in a week or a month most likely.” _Maybe never_ , he doesn’t tell her.

There is a rather forceful crash of porcelain against wood as Narcissa uncharacteristically raises her voice, “It’s really quite _uncouth_ how you’re ignoring him, Draco.” He lowers the paper once more to see her violently buttering a slice of toast. “You weren’t raised to be so insolent.” She slams her forearms against the edge of the table, burning eyes meeting his. “He is your father and should be shown the utmost respect.”

He holds her gaze without blinking, his occlumency shields up and reinforced, refusing to be cowed. She breaks away first, and Draco continues reading the Prophet, informing his mother, “Lucius ceased to be my father when he sold his soul, house, and family to a madman.” He tries not to think about how the date of that betrayal was before he was even born.

She hisses, “You should be working to bring him home, Draco, not wasting your time with those muggles and piddling _personal projects_.”

Sighing, Draco folds the Prophet the way he found it and places it on a nearby chair, knowing his mother will not let the conversation go to quiet now that she’s riled. This isn’t the first time they’ve . . . discussed this subject; and though he had believed his mother understood his position and motives, he finds himself disappointed that she may have been placating him until now. “On the contrary, Lucius is exactly where he should be, Mother.”

She deliberately curls her fingers into her palms at the edge of the table where he can see, her whole body held with a palpable rigid tension and lips puckered as if her coffee had somehow turned sour. “Those muggles have poisoned your mind.”

Just as deliberately, Draco drops his hands to his thighs, relaxes his shoulders and meets her gaze directly, openly. His shields are down, and he can be nothing but honest. “I have thought this way before I ever received Mrs. Granger’s first invitation.” 

Narcissa’s mouth drops open before she remembers herself and presses her lips together in flagrant disapproval. Her demeanor is obviously unhappy but also thoughtful. She takes a breath and releases, her body language softening along with the hardness of her eyes. “War requires much from all of its soldiers, Draco. You cannot blame your father for doing what was necessary for survival.”

This argument is going nowhere. He smiles. “Of course I can. _I do_.” He reaches for the paper again with one hand while taking up his fork with the other. “Did you know Greengrass has relocated the family back to England?” Remembering how close his mother had been to the Lady Greengrass, he feels he should mention it. The subject change is just an added bonus.

His mother stares at him, her expression once again clear of all emotion, frigid and focused. She begins eating again. “You should write to him immediately, dear, and secure an appointment to discuss the contract.”

At the mention of the contract, Draco immediately feels tense and nauseous, pointedly putting down his eating utensils and wiping his mouth with an embroidered napkin. “My schedule is full for the next month or so, but I agree a reconnection should be established.” If only for his mother’s peace of mind. Draco owes her that much at least. “I’ll owl him later today.” He also makes a mental note to write to Granger, to invite her . . . where? It can’t be a location in the wizarding world – she’s avoiding it. No, it must be somewhere she associates with safety . . . maybe a muggle library? He’s been wanting to visit one anyway, but what if she chooses not to meet him? Then what? How can he apologize if not face to face? 

A sharp snap startles him out of his musings, his mother’s fingers still brandished like a weapon when a house elf appears to take her dishes. “And the muggles?” She always calls them ‘the’ or ‘those muggles’. She never admits they are people who have names. The habit is starting to grate on his nerves. “Will you be reconnecting with them soon as well?”

“If it is favorable to them, yes.” And he means that. He’s missed his talks with Mrs. Granger and Richard. He’s missed the satisfaction of learning about autos and their inner workings; the meditative quality of working with his hands instead of a wand; and the comforting ease of being in the company of people who have no expectations of him save that he be himself. He still goes to the boxing club six times a week, has made tentative friendships there and feels less . . . manic for it. Sometimes, he thinks he’s addicted to the calm that washes over his nerves with the purposeful motion of each punch, the hypnotic rhythm of fists on the heavy bag.

Narcissa stands and makes a show of jerkily (needlessly) adjusting her dressing gown. It’s a move he’s familiar with, though – in the past – it has been aimed at Lucius. “If it is _favorable_ , I should like to meet them.” She pauses dramatically as she turns her eyes to her fingers, pulling at the hems of her sleeves. “After all, they have successfully stolen my only son’s affections and brainwashed him to turn against his family.”

Years ago, Draco would have coddled her, bent over backwards to prove that his filial affections were only hers, but he’s tired of being manipulated into doing what she or anyone else wants him to do. Particularly when he simply doesn’t want to do it. “Don’t be melodramatic, Mother.” His eyes flash as his voice dips into the cold timbre he is so accustomed to receiving. “Green isn’t your color.”

She gasps, taking a half step back and raising a freshly manicured hand to her chest, as if physically struck. Her face is pale and sad, her eyes reflecting a lack of recognition. When she speaks, her tone is soft, pained, and full of something like resignation. “I don’t know who you are anymore.” 

He watches as she turns slowly and walks away, murmuring. “Someone desperately trying to become a better human being than you taught me to be, Mother.” 

His focus turns to his breakfast, ignoring the cold emptiness that has taken up residence in his gut as he realizes that being such a someone may mean sacrificing the relationship with his mother. He truly hopes it will not come to that, because he knows which option he will choose if it does.

***

Hermione is already dressed for the day and nursing a second cup of coffee when her parents bumble downstairs in giggles and squeals and generally being disgustingly affectionate. Hermione watches them with long-suffering amusement and a strong wave of love, internally hoping one day she will find someone who can make her feel that way even after more than twenty-five years together.

She’s wearing her day clothes, a fitted white jumper beneath a burgundy cardigan, denims and faux leather brown heeled boots. There are rhinestone studs in her ears and a long silver chain around her neck, and – later – she will top it all off with her trusty beaded bag waiting near the door. Her hair has been tamed into some semblance of submission and tied into a messy chignon at her nape, and minimal makeup was applied before she came down to breakfast. Not a daily occurrence.

Helen – still giggling at Richard’s tickling hands – kisses Hermione’s forehead before sitting down at the table while Richard offers to get his wife a coffee and cook some bacon and eggs. Hermione only prepared toast and beans, the remains of which have gone cold.

“Where are you off to this morning, love?” Helen’s eyes are bright, her cheeks a dusky rose for reasons Hermione – immaturely – wants no part in knowing about.

“Oh, I invited Aria to a bit of a girls’ day – to get to know each other.” After all, she’s going to be part of their lives now, part of the group; and Hermione wants to establish a solid foundation for friendship, to let Aria know how welcome she is even from Ron’s ex. “I’ve planned to bring her to Kalma to get a massage, pedicure and manicure . . . then lunch at Sushi Tokoro.” She pauses for a moment to empty the dregs of her cooling coffee. “We’re supposed to meet Ginny and Aria’s friends to begin her hen party around 6.” She points a finger at Helen with a mischievous smile, “So don’t wait up.”

Helen chuckles and kisses Richard when he sets her cup of coffee (just the way she likes it) before her. “That was very nice of you, dear. I’m sure you’ll both have a lovely time together.” She flicks Hermione’s offending finger. “So don’t get too smashed.”

Hermione smiles, still feeling that warm glow of love for her parents blooming from her chest. “And just to remind you, Harry should be arriving around noon.” Hesitantly, “Are you sure you and dad don’t mind –“

Richard makes a show of sashaying in from the kitchen, presenting a plate of scones like a chef on the telly, all while setting the small plates. “Nonsense. We’re delighted to have Harry stay here anytime. The guest room is all made up, and your mother already has an itinerary of activities to –“

Helen rolls her eyes at her husband. “YOU are the one with the itinerary.” She turns to Hermione, expression mockingly serious. “I was simply going to make his favorite treacle tart and have a sit down talk to catch up before a sup of steak and kidney pudding.” A pause, thinking. “We might visit Andromeda and Teddy too if there’s time. I imagine he would love to see his godson.”

Laughing a little, Hermione shakes her head, “Well, thank you both for being so wonderful.”

Richard winks at her with a wide grin before stepping back into the kitchen. Helen watches her, eyes turning dark and somber. “Are you sure you’re okay, darling? With the wedding and all?”

Blinking, Hermione is truly confused. Had she given the impression that the wedding was making her anxious? “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Helen reaches over to take her hand, hazel eyes boring into her. “You once practiced signing your name ‘Hermione Weasley’.”

_Oh, so that’s_ . . . A blush blooms on her cheeks as she stutters, “Well . . . yes, when I was a _child_.”

Even in the face of partial capitulation, her mother is relentless. “And I know you had chosen your children’s names.”

With wide eyes, “H-ow . . . “ Hermione shakes her head slowly. “Never mind. It was a silly teenage dream, mum. Completely misguided.”

Helen’s fingers grip hers a little more firmly. “The loss of a dream can break the heart just as easily as the realization of it, love.” She takes a breath, watching as Hermione mirrors her. “I’ll ask again: Are you okay? It’s perfectly acceptable if you’re not, Hermione.”

She stares at her mother and knows, without any doubt, that Helen is asking out of love and genuine concern. Swallowing hard, she drops her gaze to their entwined hands on the table and says simply, hoarsely, “He wasn’t the one for me.” Hermione knows this is true, and the more time and distance between them underlines the facts of their relationship. Ron is her best friend, and despite wishing things were different – that _they_ were different, more compatible, he will never be more than her best friend.

Hermione can feel the other woman’s contemplation, can almost hear the course of her deliberation before, Helen’s firm, validating, “No. He wasn’t.” 

Finding strength in Helen’s naked honesty and support, Hermione looks up at her mother with damp eyes and whispers. “But I still wanted him to be.” And tomorrow, she would say good-bye to all the hopes and dreams she had pinned on him unknowingly. Tomorrow, she would move on from her crush on him and wish him happy. Because, no matter what, it's what she wants for all of them - to be happy. They've earned it.

Helen smiles sadly at her, scooting closer and using her other hand to caress her face. “I know, baby. I know.”

Hermione’s chin begins to tremble as fat tears begin to roll down her cheeks and her arms reach out to hug Helen. Her mother embraces her tightly, completely, offering a grounding force to counter the out of control emotions welling within. 

They are still wrapped up in each other when Richard approaches, setting the breakfast dishes for Helen and himself before silently rounding the table to wrap his long arms around the two women of his life.

At the feel of her dad’s warmth, Hermione starts laughing heartily between sniffles even as Helen’s muffled, “Honestly Richie, can you not let us have one utterly girl moment uninterrupted?”

Chuckling at his wife’s irritation, Richard pinches his laughing daughter on the hip. “Now, now. I wasn’t aware it was a girl moment. Had I known, I would have made sure to wear my bunny slippers and prepare some chocolate.”

Hermione slaps his hand away and laughs harder, somehow still crying and thoroughly ruining her make up.

Helen aims an arch look at her husband and kisses Hermione’s temple. “I’m so proud of you, love.”

Slowly, the three way embrace loosens and breaks as Hermione calms, still giggling, tear tracks shimmering on her skin. When everyone is in their own seats again and her parents are well into their breakfast, Hermione takes the moment to ask if they can have a family meeting sometime on Sunday – well after the wedding, subsequent reception and recovery. 

Richard nudges Helen with his elbow, earning an amusement tinged scowl. “Ooooohh, a family meeting, Hels. Must be serious.” Here, he gives Hermione a significant look. “You haven’t been seeing some random bloke behind our backs and want to tell us you’ve eloped and now carry his child, do you?”

Hermione’s whole body freezes. Helen glances at her, aware the subject may hit upon a nerve, and smacks her husband. Hard. “Of course she hasn’t, Richie.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione finds it in her to mock glare at her father. “I just have a few things I’ve been thinking about and would like to discuss with you both. Nothing serious nor immediate, and definitely not involving romance or reproduction.” Helen frowns warningly at Richard before turning a smile to Hermione. “Just give us a time, darling and we’ll be ready and waiting in the main room.”

Richard is still grinning easily, spreading jam on a scone. “Can we get a hint as to what you wish to talk about, love?”

Hermione picked at the lacey table cloth before clearing her throat. “Just . . . the . . the near future. For me. And maybe an idea I’ve been sorting out in my head . . . about a possible career venture.”

Richard leaned forward, intrigued. “Dental school?

Hermione and Helen flash him identical flat looks. He merely smirks and flourishes one hand. “Can’t wait to hear about it, love.”

Hermione addresses her mother. “I’m to meet Aria in front of St. Jude’s in an half hour; but I was hoping to speak to you before I left.”

One brow is raised as Helen takes a bite of eggs. “Something that couldn’t wait for the family meeting?

“I wager a fiver it involves the illustrious Lord Malfoy.” This from her father, stuffing his mouth with a combination of scone and bacon. Hermione just looks at him, eyes wide and lips pursed. How did he know?

Helen doesn’t acknowledge the wager on the table. “Well, dear?”

With a grimace, Hermione fishes out a fiver from her pocket and slams it on the table, sliding it to her dad who summarily brandishes it like some grand prize. “I think you should resume having tea with Malfoy.”

Helen sedately spreads a bit of butter on a scone. “Are you sure, dear?” At the same time, Richard asks, “Why the change of heart, sweetheart?”

She shifts in her seat, not really understanding why she is intrinsically uncomfortable talking about this but suspecting it must be partially due to her lingering sense of guilt and the ongoing puzzlement she feels over his last words to her - _You and your parents . . . have been a revelation._ “We . . . I ran into him at Toulous some days ago, while I was babysitting Teddy.”

Richie snickers softly before, “You didn’t hex his bollocks, did you?”

Helen slams a hand on the table, mock scandalized and barely holding back a grin. “Richard!”

Hermione snorts. “Um . . . no.” She narrows her eyes at her father, fighting to stop a laugh from bursting forth at his antics. “Why on Earth would you ask me such a thing?”

Her dad shrugs, talking around the bacon in his mouth. “You often threaten Ron and Harry when you’re angry with them.”

Even more uncomfortable that her parents know that about her, Hermione runs her nails over her denim clad thighs. “Er . . . No . . . no. As much as I don’t want to think about it, I assume Malfoy’s bollocks are where they are meant to be.” At this, Richard snickers to himself, face red and shoulders shaking. Helen calmly rolls up the nearby Prophet and whacks him.

Unable to stop herself, Hermione continues, only a little aware that her words could be construed as nervous rambling. “He was exceedingly well-mannered . . . even gentlemanly. I apologized and talked to him about my concerns.” The way I should have in the first.

Helen smiles encouragingly. “How did he take to Teddy?”

Rubbing her face (and wondering just how much of her make up has been ruined this morning), Hermione smiles, remembering. “Surprisingly well. He . . . seems interested in possibly contacting Andromeda. . . . She’s his aunt, actually.” She’s still in some degree of disbelief, recalling the uncharacteristically tender way Malfoy had interacted with Teddy and the gentle eagerness in his face when she had mentioned writing to Andromeda.

Richard sips his tea, nodding. “I’m sure Andy would like that. While you were getting Teddy’s things together, she mentioned thinking about writing her estranged sister. Draco’s mother, I assume.”

Nodding absently, she rises to clean up her breakfast space. “So . . . I just wanted to let you know that I feel more at ease about your . . . strange attachment to Draco Malfoy.”

Helen shares a pointed look with Richie as Hermione goes about in the kitchen, cleaning her dishes, musing, “I think I’ll write to him later.” Her gaze follows Hermione as she passes to go into the main room to fetch her bag. “If you’re absolutely certain, dear.”

Throwing a smile over her shoulder, Hermione glances into a small mirror hanging just by the front door. “I’m sure, mum.” She opens the door and overhears her dad say something about being thankful he’ll have a little help in the garage again before chuckling to herself and leaving to meet Aria.

***

Later, Helen is checking a patient’s overbite – when there’s a knock at the closed window. She glances over to find the shadow of a bird outlined against the blinds. Excusing herself to the patient, she takes a moment to twist the wand to partially reveal a tawny owl with a small flashing (gold?) envelope grasped in its beak, feet nervous and turning its head to and fro.

Helen sighs and goes back to focusing on her work. The owl can wait.

She finishes up, directing her assistant, Joshua, to sterilize the instruments before moving to view a set of x-rays as Joanne, one of their two hygienists, takes over. Richard is busy singing some nonsense song down the hall to a scared child and she can’t stop herself from chuckling. Because, Lord, does she love that man. Things could have gone so wrong for them considering how awful their first few run-ins had gone. She counts herself extremely lucky that Richard is the kind of man to see the best in people, even when all they have to give is their worst.

Hermione is so much like him in that regard, her heart always in the right place, her eyes always taking in the full picture rather than limiting her perspective. She isn’t jaded like Helen had been at that age. She isn’t bitter or angry at the people who had hurt her. 

Her girl is – at once – more empathic and made of sterner stuff; and Helen is constantly in awe of Hermione’s raw strength of will and tenacity. She’s been through so much – monsters, bigotry, mental abuse, war, hunger, and desperation just to name a few; and not once did she run away, step aside, or falter. Even now, when the crutches of rational and pragmatism have become crushed under the tidal wave of emotional response and impulse Hermione has ignored for years to survive, her baby girl is standing tall, seeking help, and _healing_.

Before, Hermione wouldn’t talk of the future. The very mention of career choices, returning to school, dating, or even plans for the next day could send her into hyperventilating. Now, she’s willing to talk about . . . something voluntarily. Day after tomorrow. 

Helen hasn’t been so excited over a family meeting _ever_.

Rubbing her eyes, Helen leaves her musings on Hermione’s future for further exploration another time and gets caught up in the dance of reviewing patient files, seeing patients, looking at x-rays, and updating patient files. She forgets about the owl until she notices it following her home in the rearview mirror of her car. 

Helen’s heart sinks. By this time, the bird has been trying to deliver whatever missive it holds for over four hours. 

Safely in her garage, she leaves the door open and turns off the transmission, allowing the beautiful tan and red and brown owl to come roost on one of the large tool boxes near the wall. She gets out of the car, feeling the satisfying weariness of a half day’s work weighing her bones even as she looks forward to seeing the returned Harry. 

She pets the beautiful, unfamiliar feathers with one finger, cooing, “You’ve been so patient. I’m very sorry I made you wait so long. If you wait a moment more, I’ve some treats.”

The owl merely watches her with a characteristic heavy-lidded expression of resigned irritation. She grins back and runs inside to get the aforementioned treats, returning as soon as she can. 

The owl eagerly exchanges its precious golden stationary for the snacks, scarfing it down with a speed that tells Helen she had left the poor thing entirely too long. “Do you need to wait for a reply?” The owl stares at her and doesn’t fly away which she takes as an affirmation. 

“Okay, then.” She opens the envelope carefully, recognizing the fine grain as particularly posh. The card inside is a tasteful off-white with a lacework overlay type design and gold inlaid print, engineered into a gorgeous, feminine calligraphy. The first words are a surprise with the following sending a strange pins and needles sensation along her skin to shiver through her flesh and into her bones.

_**Lord Draco Malfoy and Lady Narcissa Malfoy** _

request the pleasure of your presence for afternoon tea

_February 17, 2:00 pm at Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Helen and Narcissa and Draco have tea at Malfoy Manor. Draco fervently wishes he were elsewhere.


	11. Royal Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron gets married. An emergency Granger family meeting is called. Helen has tea at Malfoy Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There are mentions of panic attack symptoms in this chapter. And a little accidental magic type violence and blood shed (nothing graphic or extensive, everybody is fine).
> 
> Speaking of this chapter, I have been FIGHTING to get this thing out. I had the full dialogue of the tea done but there was so much I wanted to cover in this chapter it just went ON AND ON AND ON. I logged 19 pages for this one - easily the longest chapter.

The invitation is not addressed to her or anyone, the gold envelope shining and absent of a recipient; but the owl had dropped the bit of parchment and glimmer into her hand so she is reasonably sure it is meant for her. And possibly Richard.

She brings it up at dinner – careful to be discreet with Harry in attendance, handing the envelope and designer stationary over with obvious reluctance. Richard insists they should both attend, unusually sober in his intensity. Helen isn’t so convinced. She has a gut-feeling the invitation is meant solely for her. Harry just surveys the exchange with curiosity bordering on suspicion before excusing himself to attend Ron’s stag night. They decide to put it aside for the moment, to consult with Hermione. 

Helen waters and feeds the owl, apologizes to the animal for the protracted wait and offers the garage as a safe nesting space to rest.

The next day dawns with the expectation of a wedding, getting ready for a wedding, and attending a wedding. The invitation is relegated to the back of their minds as they select their Sunday best, check in with Harry and Hermione (both of whom are entirely too chipper and effusive for people who were positively sloshed only hours ago), before undertaking the drive to St. Fursey’s, Sutton, Norfolk. 

Harry and Hermione have opted to apparate to the church after meeting Ron’s half of the bridal party at the Burrow, so it is only Helen and Richard in the car singing road trip songs, commenting on the lovely weather and scenery, discussing how proud they are of Hermione for choosing magical travel after abstaining for so long (barring the floo network), and – in Helen’s case – reading. The kilometers disappear as they putter along in good company, and before they know it, they are parking in a nearby field as the small car park is already filled. 

Wedding guests, both magical and non, are dressed in muggle clothes – in deference to the bride’s father - lovely dresses, a vast array of fascinators and dapper suits. A million flowers and ribbons are posted . . . everywhere in tasteful lilac and cream. Helen feels Richard weave his fingers through hers as they approach the celebration. 

Weddings always make her nostalgic for her own. Her and Richard’s wedding had been held in the very same public park near their house with only Richard’s family in attendance and a few of their university friends – a total of twenty-seven people. She had sewn her own dress and used her mother-in-law’s veil. They had been 23 and 26 years of age – she had just begun her 2nd year of supervised dental practice and Richie had opened their office just a few months prior, drowning in student debt and barely making ends meet; but it had somehow seemed the right time.

She smiles to herself, remembering how she had forgotten to order a bouquet only to find Richard waiting next to the pastor with a store bought, cellophane wrapped bunch of spring flowers.

There are a multitude of gingers, she notes. Several of Hermione’s classmates are in attendance as well though she’s only been introduced to a handful. There is George Weasley near the door to the chapel, quite flamboyant in a royal purple suit. She and Richie wave and grin at Molly and Arthur – the latter looking quite red around the eyes and clutching tightly to a well-used handkerchief. Ginny is there beside a ruffled looking Harry, and Helen hopes, fervently, that he will stay local for a bit and treat Ginny to a little attention. She thinks he will – he had told Andromeda during their visit yesterday that he was growing homesick. They are so adorably in love but so tentative and careful, it’s actually painful (but addicting) to watch. 

They are funneled along with the other guests into a thick line of well-wishers and attendants, shaking many hands and hugging more shoulders as they inch toward the doors of the small church. Richie is in his element, talking to everyone, seamlessly joining conversations with friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike. She stands back a little to watch him, never failing to compliment the families of the bride and groom equally, sometimes offering stories about Ron as a child, effortless and friendly in a way she has never been. 

They pass Percy Weasley with a short greeting before making their way to Charlie, somehow looking roguish even in a buttoned-up tuxedo, whom they have had the pleasure of meeting a few times. He kisses Helen’s cheeks and shamelessly flirts much to Richard’s amusement, telling her he will expect at least two dances with her at the reception. She laughs and tells him to make it three before Richard jokes hasn’t he shared her enough lately?

Next is Bill Weasley, his smile outshining his scars, and his radiant wife Fleur – large and nearing the end of her pregnancy. Bill fully hugs Helen and shares a strong handshake with Richard, taking care of introductions. Helen coos over the blonde’s baby bump as they commiserate briefly over shared motherhood. She’s due in three weeks but doesn’t quite feel ready to be not pregnant. Helen laughs and tells her that she felt the same when she was nearing the end of her own pregnancy though Hermione came screaming into the world regardless of her mother’s wishes a week and two days early. 

“Do you know if it’s a girl or boy?” 

“Non. Bill wants eet to be a surprise.” Leaning, in Fleur glances at Bill, noting he’s distracted in conversation with Richard. “I am certain eet ees _une fille_.”

Helen gestures that her lips are sealed as the two women share a grin. 

As they are greeting George, he assures them there will be no pranks (that he can’t get away with) and warns them to stay away from any food that counts cheese as a main ingredient. Helen decides she doesn’t want to know while Richard plies the younger man with questions. As the two discuss the various products George has in development, Helen allows her gaze to take in the river of people – many more than can fit in the small chapel. 

It’s wonderful, really, that Ronald and Aria have so many people here to witness and honor their union in hope and love. She smiles to herself. While she gives Ron a hard time, she truly loves the boy her daughter counts as a best friend. She simply doesn’t like how he treats her daughter sometimes. He deserves happiness – all of these kids do (she spots Luna and Neville – apparently attending together, Terry Boot and a girl Helen knows attended Hogwarts with Hermione but whose name escapes at the moment). Placing a hand at the base of her neck, she thanks the Powers that Be for this day of joy and togetherness.

It’s as this thought is chasing her mind that she spots Hermione, edging upstream to stand beside Harry and speak something into his ear. Her daughter is gorgeous, done up in a tea length faux-wrap dress in shimmering pale blue. Her hair has been relaxed and molded into springy, soft curls that shine as if she’s just come off a Pantene advert. At her elbow is a young man with messy sandy blond hair and a ruddy complexion beneath a full beard. His eyes are locked on her as she talks with Harry, his hand hovering near her arm.

For just a moment, Helen appreciates that her baby girl is now a grown woman and feels her eyes sting and breath catch. 

They push on to Harry, Ginny, Hermione and the mysterious gentleman (who is summarily introduced as Aria’s second brother Quintus), spreading their affection with hugs and kisses before being ushered inside the venue where they congratulate Molly and Arthur and meet Aria’s parents – Tamsyn and Samuel. As they enter into the nave, immediately, Helen and Richard note the inside is obviously larger than the outside and nearly lose their composure when another (muggle) guest comments, “Wow, they really did utilize the space to maximum capacity.”

They sit near an old woman with a regal, stern face and wearing mourning clothes, leaving a space for Hermione. There is a whispering hush that fills the little church as guests funnel in, muttering about the beautiful décor, the wait to enter, and musings on what sort of fare the reception will boast.

Soon enough, the aisle is clear and the pastor arrives. Ronald walks up the aisle, tall and handsome in a white tuxedo, nervously tugging at the lapels, the hem of his coat. Arthur escorts Molly to her seat at the front as Aria’s father does the same for her mother. There’s a distinct rustle and the shushing sound of ballet flats before Hermione takes her seat, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and her breath coming in muted gasps.

Leaning over, Helen whispers, “Where have you been?”

Hermione huffs, “One of the bridesmaids had a bit of breakdown over the way her hair was styled. Ginny and I stayed behind to help her then ran full out to get back here.”

Chuckling, Helen pats Hermione’s hand and comments, “Ronald looks a little pissed, doesn’t he?”

“George said he’s been taking shots of fire whiskey every hour since waking this morning at four. He’s pissed but he’s also . . . really happy. He really loves Aria. It’s right there in his face when he talks about her.” Hermione’s face is soft, her smile small and bittersweet but _real_. “She’s a real sweetheart, mum. I think . . . I think they’ll be together for a very long time.”

Helen is about to say something more when the organ pipes up and the closed doors at the end of the aisle open and the first strains of the Bridal March begin. Hermione’s eyes are watching Ron’s back closely while Helen watches Hermione and Richard watches the bride’s entrance. Aria is a vision in ivory silk, her blond hair left to flow down her back in gentle waves, glittering pins and a sheer veil making her look like some otherworldly nymph. Her cheeks are glowing red and tears are standing in her eyes. The bridesmaids follow in a wave of lilac and cream silk, four in number, to settle across the aisle from the ushers, all neat and sharp in their black and white tuxedoes (save for George still sporting purple). 

Hermione sighs and Helen echoes the sound. Their hands reach for each other and hold through the service.

Later, at the reception, Helen dances her three dances with Charlie who very shamelessly flirts with her before surrendering her to her waiting husband. Richie jokingly asks if he needs to expect her to begin “dating” another younger man and if this arrangement applies to him.

“You want to date younger men?” She asks mock seriously.

He laughs, “I walked right into that one.” 

She grins wolfishly, “Because I wouldn’t stand in your way, darling. Not when you’ve been so exemplary in accepting my . . . extramarital flirtations.”

“Ah ha! So you admit it! I knew the Malfoy boy would soon succumb to your many and varied charms.” He dips her, kissing her briefly through their shared laughter.

Helen looks up at Richard, thoroughly lost in memories and fairly glowing as if she is just a girl falling in love for the first time. “I love you.”

He kisses her forehead, a gesture that no doubt looks innocent but – to them – feels more intimate than the dance or the dip or the kiss they just shared. “Love you too, Helcat.” He steps back and nudges her hand to initiate a spin. “I’ve been thinking, how would you feel about renewing our vows for our 25th anniversary?”

“I think you are dreadfully romantic and that it would be heinously expensive.”

“I asked how you would _feel_ , love.”

“I feel it is a dreadfully romantic, heinously expensive idea.”

He chuckles and promises to convince her. She has no doubt he will – eventually.

The rest of the evening is full of speeches, decent if cool food and champagne (which Richard chooses not to partake in). The cake is not the traditional fruit cake, but, Helen muses as she stuffs her face, is like some confection crafted by gods. 

Hermione seems to be having a good time, never wanting for a dance partner between Aria’s brothers, the Weasleys, Harry, and her Hogwarts friends. Ginny catches Aria’s bouquet, and brandishes it toward Harry with a wide grin; and he responds with a blush that stretches from his forehead to beneath his tux. Helen and Richard find a chance to introduce themselves to Aria, hug and congratulate Ronald before starting toward the exit, knowing they have a long drive ahead of them.

When they come upon Hermione, holding a flute full of champagne (that is so devoid of bubbling, Helen thinks it might be the same flute she’s had all the whole time) and listening to Quintus talk. He’s standing quite close – too close for a new acquaintance in Helen’s opinion, so she rushes forward to press a hand to Hermione’s back and apologize for interrupting but, “would you like to ride home with us, love?”

If Helen had wondered interfering might be overstepping, her daughter’s stressed expression and stiff shoulders would have put those thoughts to rest. 

“Yes. Yes, just let me say good-bye to everyone.” She smiles tightly at the disappointed Quintus briefly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He calls after her that she forgot to get his number. Helen covers her mouth when Hermione yells back that she’ll be sure to get that from Aria soon. 

Standing there, watching Hermione walk away in her grown up dress with her grown up hair and grown up suitors, Helen feels somewhat lost. They are all getting better. Dr. Ufuoma has helped them so much in the last year working through many of their problems – individually and as a family. The anger for the secrets Hermione kept is no longer there; the yearning for the nearly two years worth of memories she will never have with her daughter has waned; but the fear . . . the fear that the trials Hermione has suffered will never allow her to be completely unguarded, has erased the bright-eyed carefree child glowing with untamed curiosity and _magic_ she once knew . . . that fear has remained.

And the very worst part of that fear is the knowing she can do nothing to help her baby. The real work has to be done by Hermione. And that means . . . letting go.

Minutes pass and then she’s shouldering her way back to Helen with Richard in tow. Her smile is heartbreaking in that Helen can see that it’s more of an _attempt_ than a success, the skin around her eyes strained. “Harry is going to stay a little longer then spend the night at the Burrow.”

Helen and Richard share a look before she cups one of Hermione’s cheeks while leaning in to kiss the other. “Let’s go home.”

***

“MUM.”

It’s early. Too early. Helen bleerily squints into the partial darkness, hugging her pillow and reaching out a foot – nothing. Richard is already up. She rests her head against soft white material and mumbles, “Hhhhmmm?”

“Mum.” Rough hands at her shoulder and hip are shaking her. “Get. Up.”

Helen grips her pillow a little tighter. Doesn’t Hermione know it’s the fucking weekend? Doesn’t she know just how much fucking champagne was consumed yesterday? She groans as an invisible hammer makes impact with her temple, lighting up red behind her eyelids. 

“Mum . . . _Helen_ , if you don’t get up right this moment, I will cast aquamenti and won’t stop until your mattress is thoroughly _ruined_.”

The hammer is now mashing up her brains in a distinct and constant rhythm similar to her heartbeat. Helen whimpers. “Good God, Hermione, can’t it wait?” Preferably after another three hours of sleep and a cup of coffee . . . or two.

“NO.” Arms pull and push her body into some semblance of sitting up, her head bobbing limply as she groans and complains and wonders why her usually loving daughter is putting her through this torture. 

“Mum, you need to lift your head so you can take this.” Something cool and smooth is pressed to her lips and tipped over, bitter liquid sliding into her mouth and down her throat. She chokes, swallows, and feels instantly awake, energized and clear headed. Helen cracks open her eyes to glare at her darling daughter who pins her with a heavy, pale look. “The family meeting is **NOW**.”

Helen is about to sigh when she takes Hermione in clearly. Her breath catches at the pale, manic vision of wild eyes shadowed by fatigue surrounded by wilder hair, a notable tremor running through her body, a worry-worn mouth. “I’m up. Where is dad?”

Hermione’s entire body seems to fold as if she had just enough energy to get this far and now, homeostasis is collapsing. “Downstairs. We’ll wait for you.” 

Helen sweeps a hand across her face and grasps the hair at the top of her hair, pulling slightly. What the bloody hell was going on now?

When she clambers down the stairs into the main room, still in her pajamas and bare feet, Richard wishes her a good morning from his perch on the couch with an apologetic tilt to his mouth while Hermione stands in the far corner, arms crossed defensively over her chest, an ivory lacework card poised between two fingers.

_Shite._

“We had planned to talk to you about the invitation later this morning, Hermione. I’m sorry you found out so suddenly.” Malfoy Manor is – understandably – a sensitive topic. Helen had been hoping to ease her into this discussion. 

Some of the tension in Hermione’s body language releases but only just. “When did you receive this?”

“Friday,” Richard supplies. “The owl tried to deliver it to your mother at work; however, she didn’t get a chance to read it until the afternoon.”

“Where’s the owl?”

Helen seats herself next to her husband. The need for coffee grates at her nerves. “In the garage, still waiting on a response.”

There’s a long pause as Hermione stares at them. Helen can almost hear the gears turning in her head. “You weren’t going to keep this from me?”

“No, love.” This from Richie. 

Helen expands, “This family has had enough of secrets.”

Hermione nods slowly, swallows thickly then carefully sits down on a decorative chair Richard had toted home one day from a flea market. “Okay then.”

“We discussed attending between ourselves yesterday but couldn’t come to an agreement until we spoke to you, darling.”

Young hands scratch shallowly along a thick flannel skirt. “You’re not -- I . . . I don’t want either of you to go.” Her voice is high, almost shrill, and broken like a scared little girl’s.

Sharing a glance, the parents in this scenario silently agree to proceed with all caution. Hermione’s progress, they realize, is at stake; and they genuinely do not want her to return to a time of night terrors.

“Sweetheart,” Helen takes a deep breath, “I think I should attend. Alone.” She holds up a hand when Hermione _and_ Richard open their mouths to argue, “Lucius Malfoy will not be there. He’s in Azkaban. Narcissa is not allowed to use magic for another month, and Draco will be there per the invitation. I will be perfectly safe.”

Brown eyes blaze fiercely, “Malfoy Manor itself is imbued with dark magic. The walls would probably devour you when it senses you’re muggle.”

Richard – inappropriately – chuckles, ignoring Helen’s warning glance. “Darling, you’re being overdramatic. It’s just an invitation to tea. I’m reasonably certain Lady Malfoy would not jeopardize her freedom by causing harm.”

Before Hermione could respond, Helen jumps in, “I’ve been corresponding with Narcissa by owl for months.” She shoots an apologetic smile at Hermione’s betrayed expression. “She most likely just wants to discuss our involvement with Draco.”

It is something she’s been musing about on and off since receiving the invitation, how she understands why Narcissa would want to meet and talk with her face-to-face. If the shoe were on the other foot and Hermione had been meeting with the Lady Malfoy (or any other unknown mother) once or twice a week for months, she would be chomping at the bit to find out what was so special about this ‘other mother’ and how she would measure up against them.

Helen is thoroughly aware of her flaws. She is – at her core – a jealous woman. The knowledge makes it easier to detect the same in others.

With her mouth drawn into a tight line, Hermione grates out, “I want to read these letters from Narcissa; and I _will_ be writing to Malfoy about my concerns regarding the Manor and any lingering dark artefacts and magic.”

It is taking everything in Hermione to not _demand_ they reject the invitation. Her strength and acceptance of her limitations in this decision are things Helen appreciates fully and completely. But –

She opens her mouth to speak but Richard beats her to it, soothing, “We know you were hurt there, Hermione – more than hurt.” They’ve all suffered the nightmares – Hermione from her experiences, they from their imaginations. “It’s why we wished to discuss this with you before we made the decision of who goes.”

Not whether or not they would attend. Helen can detect the moment Hermione realizes the nuance. Her eyes close and her face pales even more as she grips her hands together to quell the shaking. There are tears in her voice when she nakedly whispers she doesn’t want them to go.

Richard goes to her, holds her tightly and murmurs that they don’t really want to go either but they need to.

Helen watches and wonders if their daughter’s anguish will be worth it in the end.

***

In the end, it is decided – between themselves – that _both_ Helen and Richard will attend. A response is sent to this effect – much to the owl’s obvious jubilation; however, when the morn of the 17th dawns, they are awakened by the dulcet tones of the blower, alerting them to a dental emergency that absolutely Can. Not. Wait.

Hour by hour, she checks in with him only to find he is otherwise engaged with a patient or the parent of a patient or on the phone with a specialist or -- As the clock edges evermore toward the appointed hour, it becomes more and more apparent that Helen will be attending alone.

Ten minutes till the appointed time, Helen is pacing before the fireplace in her stockings, fanning her face with the envelope and its prior missive while Hermione watches from the couch, visibly tense and nervous with ringing hands and bunched up knees.

“You don’t have to go, mum. There’s still time to back out.”

Helen scoffs, “Nonsense.” Her eyes touch upon the clock again. “Aren’t you going to see Dr. Ufuoma?”

Hermione’s cheeks pink even as her lips frown. “I wanted to be here to see you off.” She breathes. “My appointment was moved to 3:30.”

_Five minutes_. Did people like the Malfoys hold to a fashionably early, punctual, or fashionably late timetable? 

She touches the intricate braided bun at the back of her head absently. Why was she so nervous? Her eyes roll. Of course, she’s nervous. She was going into this . . . tea on unfamiliar turf and on the defensive. Through their correspondence, Helen had not been able to get a clear feel for Narcissa’s personality and temperament. The Lady’s penmanship was divine – elegant and feminine with a decided edge that was punctuated in a pointed, nuanced turn of phrase that left the distinct impression of condescension.

“Mum?” 

Helen’s gaze flits to Hermione who is squeezing herself even smaller, ever tighter. The clock ticks, _three minutes_. She shoots an assuring smile at her daughter before taking the steps to embrace her shortly. “Everything will be fine.”

A moment longer then she’s marching into the fireplace with a handful of floo powder and pronouncing, “Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire” as green flames consume her view of Hermione rushing to stand, a hand stretched out.

The disorientation from floo is nothing compared to side-along apparition. Helen takes a moment to brush off any lingering soot and appreciate the empty room she finds herself in - tall windows lining the near wall; decadent jewel tones of an emerald armchair, a sapphire rug, diamond and silver sconces; all framed by deep mahogany and shimmery cream drapes. Everything is clean – even the chandeliers look freshly dusted. Her first impression is one of opulent sterility.

A crack rends the air making her jump and squeal as a little person in a very small toga and large ears appears out of nowhere. “I be Sissy, Miss. Mistress says Sissy to tell Miss that Mistress be here momentarily.”

Helen stares at the little person, realizing slowly that Sissy is a house elf. _A slave_ , Hermione’s voice pops in. “Yes. Of course. Thank you Sissy.” Her hands feel damp. She rubs them against the tweed of her skirt.

Sissy’s big eyes shine with happiness before she disappears with an audible pop, leaving Helen alone once again. She allows her gaze to lift up, taking in the sheer height of the ceiling, then down to survey the exposed seams of the perimeter, the grain and height of an area rug. A step, the hollow sound indicating this is not the ground floor. She remembers, distantly, there is a fully functional, previously used dungeon.

For just a moment, she allows herself to feel afraid.

The dainty click of heels and the swish of fine cloth announces Lady Malfoy’s arrival before the drawling, “ _Mrs._ Granger. It’s so splendid to make your acquaintance finally. My darling Draco has told me so much” does. She looks like something out of a Victorian novel, draped in thin layers of silk that flutter at the merest movement and lace that grants maturity as well as elegance. A jeweled broach sits at the Lady’s throat and her silvery-blonde hair is swept back from her face. Her bearing is that of an aristocrat, her hands – as they take Helen’s – are those of a woman of leisure, soft, unmarred skin. 

Helen forces a smile even as she straightens her spine, noting the lack of an air kiss, the barely there touch and subsequent press of fragile fingers to flowing robes. “Thank you so much for the kind invitation. I am also very excited to meet you, _Mrs._ Malfoy.”

Ice blue eyes are wide above a tight smile. “Please. Call me Narcissa.”

“Then you must call me Helen. Richard – my husband – is very sorry he was unable to attend. There was an emergency root canal that came up at the last minute.” She watches Lady Malfoy’s eyes go flat – almost glassy – as she mouths a quiet “Oh”. 

“There will be another time, I’m sure.” Without warning, the blonde woman verily floats into a graceful turn before gliding away toward a nearby corridor. “Please follow me. We shall be taking tea in the interior tea room, of course.”

Helen follows with wide eyes and disbelief twisting her mouth. _“Of course.”_ She tries to soften her steps when she realizes Narcissa’s are – somehow – near soundless. As they walk, she entertains the unsettling sensation that she is being watched though she can’t quite pinpoint why she feels that way. Shivering, she tries. “Your home is quite . . . immense.” And she hasn’t even seen it from the outside.

Narcissa doesn’t turn to look at her but speaks to the air, bringing one arm up in a graceful arc. “Yes. The main structure was built sometime in the 14th century though sections have been demolished and built up over time.” Her tone is genteel, soft, her accent well-formed and overly proper. “We have been renovating since our return home. The activity has been a great comfort during my . . . convalescence.” 

Helen almost snorts at Narcissa’s blatantly misleading turn of phrase. “I’m quite partial to natural light myself. Your parlor is quite warm and welcoming.” If you look past the empty perfection of it. “Very different from what I imagined.” She had imagined something straight out of a horror film with blood stains on the walls and scorch marks on the floor.

When they reach the interior tea room, Helen fawns over the space in appropriate wonder. It is semi-circular with floor to ceiling windows overtaking the circumference and allowing the space to fill with sunlight. What little usable wall space there is between the grand windows is painted a lovely pale pink, votives of freshly cut flowers decorating gold sconces and woven into garlands to drape around the windows. The floor is a of pale ash wood plank under an oriental rug advertising a rainbow of color. The table and chairs are painted a pristine, blinding white muted only by lovely little bit of table cloth in pale green brocade. 

This room is the very feminine counterpoint to the room she had arrived in.

Narcissa apologizes for Draco’s seeming lateness before urging Helen to take a seat as an ornate tea service – fine white porcelain lined in gold plate and painted with growing vines and blooming flowers – and food dishes – cakes and biscuits, macaroons and a tray of different cheeses, savory biscuits and caviar surrounded by a variety of creams, sweeteners, jellies and spreads – appear out of thin air. Helen can feel the Lady watching her closely; but she is not moved in the slightest, seating herself in the chair closest to the exit then allowing the teapot to pour itself while the sweeteners and cream offer themselves.

There is nothing but the familiar sounds of clinking utensils and china for an interminable amount of time before Lady Malfoy hesitantly begins, “May I say, Helen, I am so utterly regretful about what happened to your daughter in this house.”

Helen isn’t sure what she must look like in that moment, but she can feel her expression freeze on her face, her entire body going numb. _That . . . wasn’t an apology . . ._ The passive word choice – as if the woman before her bears no responsibility - does not escape her notice nor does use of “your daughter” rather than Hermione’s name, as if she is a faceless nobody rather than a real person with a worthy identity. 

“You may indeed.” Helen stops there, deciding to bide her time. 

Lady Malfoy gives a little jolt and grimace at the unexpected response, obviously a little miffed at being called out so baldly by a guest. “It was a dark time,” she muses into her teacup. Helen notes how blue eyes carefully observe her every move, cataloguing every piece of furniture, serving ware and cloth she touches.

Helen sips her tea, intoning, “Wars typically are.” 

Now the cheese tray and macaroons present themselves, allowing time for her to begin filling her serving plate. Though she isn’t looking at the hostess, she can feel the other woman’s judging gaze, can just discern a hint of sour in her expression before she brandishes a bottle of champagne and smirks, “How do you take your tea, dear?”

The tension is cut by Helen’s laugh and Narcissa’s call for “Ninny, fetch the orange juice.” Apparently, they are going to be having mimosas though the tea remains – presumably for Draco.

When the juice and champagne flutes arrive, Helen switches seats to be closer to Narcissa, ignoring the way she scoots to the far edge of her chair as they pour then toast each other. A thin veneer of civil gaiety. 

“I must admit,” Lady Malfoy’s shoulders fall slightly, “I thought you quite cheeky at first, sending me muggle parenting books, particularly since my child is a fully-grown young man.”

“A young man who has difficulty making his own decisions,” Helen mutters lowly into her glass.

Narcissa gives her a pointed, questioning look. “I beg your pardon.”

Placing her drink carefully on the table cloth, Helen smiles, “I was wondering how you liked the portable compact disc player.”

Narrowing her eyes, the Lady sniffs, “Quite an entertaining contraption.” She bites into a macaroon delicately, holding the pastry between only the very tips of her fingers. “Unfortunately, I have apparently made use of it too often. Draco tells me it is in need of new _bat trees_.”

Helen bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from exposing her mirth at the mispronunciation. “Way ahead of you.” Blithely, she reaches into her purse and hands over a large pack of AA batteries. “These should last a while though you’ll need to monitor them for acid leakage every month or so.”

Suddenly looking rather girlish, Narcissa claps her hands in delight, cracking the first real smile Helen has seen from her. “My dear, you have my gratitude. I have so missed the diversion your . . . disssscks provide.”

“Audible books are – indeed – a welcome distraction.” She watches from beneath her lashes as the Lady continues.

“Truly a testament of muggle ingenuity. I am taken – in particular – with the . . . the . . . “

While amused with the obvious struggle Narcissa is having with describing her liking of the machine (and the torrid genre Helen favors), Helen takes the small victory that there was no assertion the device is somehow the idea and function of wizards. “I would imagine the _courtship_ aspects of the novels were a shock to you.” She has certainly been audience to enough rants about the archaic bent of wizarding social customs.

“Hhhhhmmmm,” the Lady hums into her dwindling mimosa, “muggle mating customs are quite . . . direct.”

Helen laughs, taking up a bit of caviar with a savory biscuit. Mating customs . . . as if referencing the reproductive habits of animals on National Geographic. “That isn’t how it actually happens in most cases. While some people _are_ very direct in their romantic pursuits, the audiobooks I sent are pure fantasy. Even by muggle standards.”

With a wry tilt to her mouth, Narcissa sighs, “I suppose muggle women and witches alike share the burden of hunting for the perfect match.” They look at each other and giggle like school girls before nursing their drinks and food. Helen taking more food than drink. She has no intention of letting her guard down, no matter how tempting the vintage.

Briefly, Helen wonders if she should ask about Lucius then decides that she doesn’t really care to know. She still wants to talk about Hermione and _that night_ though she’s certain to bring it up now would cause her companion to clam up. “Out of curiosity, how do traditional wizarding courtships proceed?” It’s merely a polite inquiry. Something that Hermione has never really spoken about in terms of process rather than implication.

Narcissa drains her third mimosa and the flute fills right back up. “Ideally . . . Ideally it begins when a child is still an infant. A betrothal contract with a . . . _compatible_ family,” Helen has no delusions as to what that must mean, “is negotiated and drawn up – settling such matters as the transfer of property and monies, what role each family will play in the courtship process, the birth and rearing of children, conditions for the breaking of the contract and other such things. There might be scheduled visitation between the betrothed parties, increasing in frequency as they grow . . . if that is their desire and their parents agree. Of course, they are always chaperoned to protect the . . . invested interests of each family. After one or both parties reach majority any further contact is left to their preference though always conducted in a public space to insure no . . . _accidents_ derail the courting process. A bonding ceremony is then performed on a date specified in the contract which is signed and sealed by the bridal couple, legally sealing the marital bond.”

Helen stares at the woman internally horrified and trying not to show it. Her hands grip her skirt so hard she is fully certain it is a wrinkled, dampened mess. “Does Draco . . . I mean to say, is Draco so betrothed?” For his sake, she certainly hopes he isn’t.

Narcissa’s blue eyes glow and her pale face is suddenly suffused with life as Helen’s goes nauseous. “Well, yes. Yes. His intended was chosen when he was just two years old. Lovely girl from a good family – pureblood, cultured, strong magical foundations.” 

She drinks deeply before licking her lips. “I haven’t heard from the Greengrasses since before the war. “ Here she flourishes her hands like little birds taking flight. “The family went underground . . . abroad somewhere though they have recently returned. Draco has written to them, I believe, to schedule a visit. The bonding ceremony is set to take place sometime before Draco’s 24th birthday . . . if the Greengrasses choose to honor the contract.”

Even _Henrietta_ had not entertained to arrange her hated daughter’s marriage. “I’m sorry, but . . . . How does Draco feel about this?”

Slightly (abhorably) inebriated, the Lady blinks. “He can be nothing but pleased to carry on such an ancient and hallowed tradition. As for the girl, I’m sure they shall get along nicely. Lucius and I handpicked her ourselves, and we have heard nothing but shining reports regarding her upbringing and decorum.”

Shaking her head, Helen cannot let it go. “That’s not exactly what I meant . . . How does Draco _feel_ about not getting a choice in this?”

Narcissa stills, becoming as stiff and blank as a statue, her eyes flat. “ _Dear Helen_ , it is an honor to accept the spouse one’s parents have chosen. After all, who loves a child more? Who knows a child better?”

“Some would say the person getting married.” It’s delivered with a sarcastic lilt but is seriously meant. _Poor Draco_.

At this, the Lady smiles coldly, so coldly Helen imagines the room temperature just lowered a few degrees. “Draco will do his duty to his family, and he will make the best of his marriage to the Greengrass girl just as his father and I did before him.”

Helen pointedly sips her mimosa – still the first, never breaking eye contact. “Yes. And look how well _that_ union turned out.” It’s an unfair thing to say, and she knows it. Her knowledge of the Malfoys’ marital relations is sparse at best and gathered solely from conversation with Draco; but she can’t, won’t take it back. That partnership had witnessed her daughter’s pain, nearly caused her premature death.

Helen will _never_ forgive that.

Narcissa’s mouth presses into a hard line as she moves to stand; but before she can say anything Draco walks into the room and stops, face paling as he realizes he’s walked into a probable war zone. The flash of shock in his eyes when his eyes land on Helen makes her wonder if he had any idea she was coming.

The Lady of the house stands, her back a rigid line and hands flexing each finger, one by one, as she stares hard at Helen. “Draco, dear, how good of you to join us.”

Swallowing heavily, he steps over to the table. “Mrs. Granger, it’s . . . a pleasure to see you?” Just like that. A question. As if he’s unsure she’s here willingly or if he needs to break her out. Hermione, she thinks, will appreciate the sentiment.

Smiling brightly at the young man, Helen stands to accept a short hug and kiss his cheek, not minding the heat of Narcissa’s death glare. “Your mother was kind enough to invite me to tea.” He mumbles something about “why she wrote” as she takes a moment to look at him, her hands tracing the width of his shoulders. “I understand congratulations are in order.” She sits back down and downs her mimosa, wishing fervently for something stronger while knowing she needs to remain sober.

Draco kisses his mother’s hand but neglects to embrace her, something Helen takes note of with interest. Greetings complete, Draco lowers himself next to Helen slowly, warily. “Congratulations?”

Helen stares at him, her smile frozen on her lips. “On your upcoming nuptials. Narcissa just informed me of the happy occasion.” Draco has made great strides in throwing off the yoke of his upbringing. She wonders if he truly wants to follow this particular tradition or if he feels he _must_. Either way, she’s only too aware of making it sound like an accusation.

Draco has the grace to look somewhat guilty, shooting his mother a sharp look. “Yes, well, thank you.”

Narcissa opens her mouth to speak but Helen hedges in. “Do you know your bride-to-be very well, dear? You’ve never mentioned her.” This time it’s intentionally accusing. Why did he never mention this? Was he hiding it intentionally? If so, why? Did he talk to Richard about it, perhaps?

The Lady is fuming, her knuckles white around her brandished teacup and saucer. “Astoria is an accomplished young lady of impeccable breeding.”

Helen doesn’t look at Narcissa, gazing steadily at a visibly uncomfortable Draco. “That’s wonderful, but I believe I asked Mr. Malfoy, Narcissa.”

A sheen of sweat seemed to appear on his forehead as he rubbed his palms against his trousers, dodging his mother’s reprimanding gaze. “I . . . We have spoken a handful of times at school, but I’m afraid the conversation was shallow at best. I’m much more familiar with her older sister. If Astoria is in anyway similar to Daphne then I am . . . “ His eyes dart to Narcissa before, “assured marriage will be . . . tolerable.”

Helen’s eyebrows are high on her face as she looks over to Narcissa.

The Lady is tapping the tip of one manicured fingernail against the tablecloth. “There is ample time for the two of you to get properly acquainted and prepare for the bonding ceremony.”

Draco stands and moves over to a nearby sideboard, producing a faceted bottle of some amber colored spirits. Quietly, he uncorks the decanter and pours himself a tumbler. “Yes. Plenty.” He knocks it back with his eyes closed, throat working against the burn.

Clearing her throat in such a way Helen can only describe as refined, Narcissa starts tapping all of her fingernails against the table in a nervous rhythm even as she tries a smile at Helen. Instead, it resembles more a sneer. “I suppose your . . . daughter is not yet spoken for then.”

Helen doesn’t even try to hide how agitated she is at the hesitation and the – second - denial of Hermione’s identity. Maybe it is time to stop pussyfooting around. “Her name is Hermione; and no, she is not.” Nor will she be. Not like that. The Lady Malfoy “aaahhs” noncommittally and nods absently as she nibbles a bit of cake, obviously less than interested. “Well, I’m certain – in time – she will succeed in luring an . . . acceptable candidate into matrimony.” Meaning another muggle born or a muggle. Helen resists the urge to punch something.

Draco is nursing another tumbler when he interjects hoarsely, “Wasn’t she dating Weas – Ronald _Weasley_?”

Distracted by her . . . less than pacific thoughts, Helen hums. “Hhhhmmmm? Oh, that ended quite a time ago. Ronald was recently married, actually. Beautiful service it was. Held at the bride’s family chapel in Norfolk. I believe a public announcement was made . . . “

Draco’s shock and awe are evident with his appalled, “The _Weasel_ married _first_?”

Narcissa seems glad to have something relatively safe to talk about again, taking up her rapidly filling flute (the fifth). “Indeed. There was a small mention in the society pages of the Prophet earlier in the week, I believe. No photograph to accompany the article though. Quite disappointing, that.” She catches Draco’s eye for a moment, shifting her gaze to the sideboard. He immediately fetches her a tumbler, pours the amber liquid, watches her down the entire drink.

Scoffing to herself, Helen studies the room more thoroughly and _wonders_ , following the seams on the floor, noting where the wall seems cracked from the foundation, searching for signs of recent work. She stands and starts walking about, stone cold sober and ready. _For Hermione_. “Tell me Narcissa, is this the room?”

Draco chokes on his (third) drink, going red-faced and bloodshot. 

The (scandalously) half-drunk hostess also seems to understand the need to proceed with caution, speaking slowly. “This is the interior tea room. There is also a tea room that connects to the southern veranda.” She sighs softly, a faraway look to her eyes. “The view of the neighboring countryside is breathtaking in the spring.”

Helen gives the other woman a sharp look accompanied by a sharper tone. “I meant, is this the room where my Hermione was tortured while you watched.” The words are like a gauntlet thrown heavily between them.

Standing so quickly his chair flips back (though it is obviously sturdily built and probably quite heavy), Draco stutters, “N . . No. No, it’s not.”

The Lady averts her eyes to the table as she blithely wipes her mouth needlessly with a pristine monogramed napkin. “Of course it isn’t. That room has been sealed since just after the war’s end. As soon as I am released from my term, there are plans to demolish and expand the adjoining ballroom.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Helen raises her chin. “Would it be untoward to request that you unseal it so that I may see it?” 

Draco rights his chair seeming out of breath and wild-eyed. “You don’t want to go in there, Mrs. Granger.” She can see the signs of an impending panic attack; and though she wants to comfort him, calm him down, she knows her answer will do the opposite. 

“Yes. I do.”

Narcissa sways slightly as she stands and shrugs. “If you insist. It would be rude to deny a guest; however, be warned, it has remained as it was after . . . the Unpleasant Business.” 

Feeling increasingly uncharitable, particularly when The Lady snaps her fingers to command an appearing elf to “scrub all of the serving ware thrice”, Helen grits her teeth. “ _Unpleasant business_?”

Draco, picking up on the growing ire of one fiercely protective muggle woman, pleads with Narcissa, “Mother, please.” 

But the blonde woman is already out of the room and beckoning Helen to follow. Helen can hear Draco taking up the rear, his breath still overly labored and his hands tugging on his clothes, fidgeting. He catches up quickly, touching two overheated, damp fingers to the inside of Helen’s elbow. “Mrs. Granger, nothing can be gained by this.”

Helen looks at him blankly for a moment before forcing a pale smile and reaching to rub his back in a hazy shade of reassurance as Narcissa reaches the door. 

Watchful and anxious, Helen observes Narcissa raising her currently useless wand even as Draco whimpers near her shoulder when the Lady’s expression freezes to turn a frosty glare back at Draco, wordless. The door is summarily pushed open, an elegant hand ushering Helen in while Draco reluctantly follows.

She can’t possibly parse what’s wrong with him right now, with the room and its destructive evidence all around her. Immediately, she is impressed with the thought that this room is darker than the rest of the house – an observation that has less to do with a lack of adequate lighting and the monochrome decor and more with the heavy – almost sinister – feel of the air. 

She tries to picture it, her baby girl being dragged into this room filled with her enemies – people who wanted her blood to run dry and her heart to stop – and no way out. Her chest hurts with the residual fear she imagines ran through Hermione’s veins in that moment. 

Shifting slowly in small circles, she starts high, lifting her gaze to the ceiling and taking in the remains of one chandelier canopy and chain. The other is mostly intact though dirty, a few prisms somehow completely blackened. Her eyes lower slowly, noting the number of doors leading into the chamber, portions of wall that have been damaged or torn through, and how the table lamps seem untouched. 

Coming to a standstill, she trains her gaze straight ahead, taking in a decorative mirror and her ghostly reflection there before breathing deeply and lowering her eyes to survey the mess of glass and wrought metal lying just inches from her feet. She traces the man-sized foot prints starkly outlined through the thick dust settled there, her eyes taking a brief reprieve from the wreckage to find Draco, saying nothing but wondering just the same. 

Stepping around the fallen chandelier, satisfied with the loud crunch of glass beneath her feet, she searches the chaos below to kneel at the tell-tale bloodstains, almost black now after so much time but – somehow – still tinged with rust. She touches them reverently, noting that here is another small portion of floor cleared of dust and debris. Her eyes burn as they become moist, and her throat constricts. 

It’s on her tongue to uselessly ask if her baby had suffered (of course she had), but Narcissa beats her.

“Draco, would you fetch my shawl? I’m feeling a bit chilled.” 

Helen hears Draco acquiesce, his fading footsteps, the sound of cloth whispering beneath the shushing of shoes then the door and a lock. She wonders why Draco had not simply used magic. 

Looking up, she sees the Lady watching her with a chilling kind of sterility. “I want you to stay away from my son.”

The true motive for the invitation. She had been entirely too optimistic believing Narcissa simply wanted to meet her. “I understand.”

Narcissa’s icy expression cracks with a deep scowl. “You are not his mother, Mrs. Granger.”

Easily enough to admit. Helen nods slowly, feeling for the first time that Hermione may have been right to insist she not come. “No. I’m not.”

Apparently, having succeeded in getting what she wants, the austere Lady turns to leave, blatantly dismissing Helen who remains kneeling beside the place where her baby girl was tortured, bled and scarred.

Helen gets to her feet and settles into a nearby armchair, disturbing the dust and sighing into a sneeze. 

Narcissa’s shoulders flinch at the sound before she turns around to see Helen making herself comfortable, her eyes darkening with a hint of confusion. “Just to clarify, Mrs. Granger, you will stop your association with Draco immediately.” 

Smiling slightly, Helen very clearly says, “No.”

For a moment, the Lady seems taken aback by betrayal, her eyes narrowing with indignation. “You said you understand my wishes.”

"I do.” 

“Then, will you or will you not cease contact with my son?”

Helen crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side, reclaiming the upper hand. “What will you do if I say I won’t?” Again, it’s unfair and she knows it. She just doesn’t really care while this woman – this _mother_ – willfully ignores her baby girl’s blood on the ground and the echoes of her pain screaming against their skin.

Lifting her chin, the other woman clasps her hands in front of her, tension lining her shoulders. “My magic shall be returned to me in less than a month.”

Though the words are meant to intimidate, Helen laughs, feeling very much like this is her comeuppance for her initial meeting with Draco, earning Narcissa’s chagrin and confusion. “Lady Malfoy, you seem to be an intelligent woman, yet you also seem to be under the mistaken impression that I am somehow subservient to you.”

Had Narcissa been able to use magic, Helen has no doubt her face would have been melted off. “I am a very powerful witch as well as a member of the muggle peerage.” Her approach is soft, nearly silent, like a cat about to pounce. She meets Helen’s gaze with a palpable scorn. “In comparison, you are –“

“A monkey escaped from its cage?” Helen grins without much humor. “No, you wizarding folk aren’t familiar with muggle zoos . . . Maybe an uncontrolled virus spreading through the wizarding masses? No, the wizarding world has been horribly lax in communicating muggle advancements and discoveries in science and technology, hasn’t it?” She clucks her tongue, judging. “Criminal really . . . Oh, wait. Your husband had a hand in that didn’t he? He and the other school governors?” She lifts a hand in dismissal. “But that’s all in the past . . . How about this: I am the roach that has infiltrated your manor and refuses to be caught or squashed underfoot, yes?”

Her mouth, so similar to Draco’s, trembles with temper. “You WILL discontinue your . . . .,” here, a disgusted scoff, “ _relationship_ with my son.” 

Helen stares at her for several moments then stands up and starts walking the perimeter of the room, not minding the sound of glass shards crunching beneath her feet, swiping a finger along a dusty bureau then wiping the rubbish from her skin. “Here’s something I’ve never understood: You lot hate my daughter and other muggleborns because you think they somehow steal magic?”

Narcissa says nothing, trembling with rage, focusing an intense fiery gaze that reminds Helen of Carrie alone on the stage drenched in pig’s blood. For the second time during this visit, she has the good sense to feel afraid.

But it doesn’t stop her from speaking freely. “Not a very good argument is it? After all, it seems no one knows where magic comes from, only that certain people are born with the ability. So, I ask, how does an embryo go about having the intent to steal magic let alone the knowledge and ability to go about it?” 

Narcissa’s eyes follow her, silent and deadly. 

With faux calm, not understanding why she feels the need to continue, Helen does. “And of course, the argument can further be refuted in that muggle parents of muggleborns know nothing of real magic – due to your own law . . . the International Statute of Secrecy, I believe; therefore, how can one plan and execute the theft of something one does not know nor believe exists? Further, if a muggle _could_ steal magic, why wouldn’t they steal it for themselves? How would they transfer it to their unborn children?”

“Is this how you have brainwashed him?” Narcissa asks darkly. “Is this how you have indoctrinated him to the edge of committing blood treachery against his family?”

The barely there fear burns away in the face of unfounded accusation. “I find it interesting how you view me as inferior yet somehow believe I have the intelligence, cunning and skill to brainwash a lifetime of systemic prejudice and bigotry out of a supposedly superior someone in less than six months. Truly, I’m flattered.”

Screaming, the Malfoy matron grasps her wand, pointing it at Helen. “I regret inviting you into my home, you _filthy, disgusting –_ “

Still holding on to calm, Helen interrupts smoothly, “I don’t regret being here, but I _am_ fucking disappointed. I thought maybe you were inviting my husband and me to apologize for your and your husband’s appalling behavior which very nearly caused my child’s death and did cause her extensive physical and mental trauma. Apparently, I overestimated your sense of personal responsibility. It’s really no wonder Mr. Malfoy was such a horrid little beast of a child with such an example.”

It becomes obvious fairly quickly as the floorboards creak and the walls begin to groan that Narcissa is barely holding herself together, her hand so closely wrapped around her wand that sweat begins to seep through her fingers in droplets. “You DARE?! Do you think your child was the only one tortured in these walls? DO YOU THINK I ENJOYED WATCHING THEM? WATCHING MY SON!?”

Heart dropping, Helen suddenly realizes that there has been a miscalculation, that she has made assumptions and acted on them (again) when she should have taken a softer approach. She watches as Narcissa shakes, her body wracking with sobs even as she holds herself upright, still brandishing her wand. 

A nearby lamp explodes, glass shards embedding themselves shallowly in Helen’s face, neck and hands as she covers her eyes. Her blood, dark red and fresh, drips from her palms to the floor, just a few feet from the old stains. Narcissa bites out a guttural, “Get. Out.”

A little breathless, blood trails cooling down her face and shoulder, Helen moves to leave but stops next to Narcissa who is taking in long, deep breaths, her blue eyes dilated and surrounded by red. “There is nothing to fear from me, Narcissa. Draco loves you.” She hesitates when Narcissa turns her head to her, a thin sheen of sweat coating her pale skin. “However, if you don’t start listening to him - his hopes, dreams, goals . . . if you don’t stop thrusting your expectations and plans upon him, I guarantee you’ll lose him. Regardless of my presence in his life.”

She makes it out the door and exhales a harsh sigh of relief, momentarily pressing the heels of her hands into her eye sockets before digging into her purse to find a tissue to wipe up her wounds. The glass will have to be removed later. 

It is at this moment that Draco returns with a beautiful – no doubt hand painted – shawl. 

“What happened?” His voice is loud and harsh, his hands frantic as they grasp at her chin, her shoulder, her cheek. “Are you alright? I’ll get the dittany –“

Helen catches his fingers in hers, willing him to look at her. He seems so young just now, his eyes dark with concern, his face flushed with high stress. So vulnerable. “No need, dear. I’ll take care of it when I get home.” 

There is a shuffling at the door, and Draco focuses on something over her shoulder. His mother. She watches as the previously expressive slate eyes are guarded in an instant. 

Helen squeezes his hand. “I sincerely hope, mine is the last blood shed in this house.” She turns, smiling pleasantly at the Lady Malfoy one last time. “Good bye, Narcissa. I thank you again for your invitation. Your tea service was lovely, the food was superb. I just wish the company had been similar.”

A few steps away, she stops to look at a thoroughly terrorized Draco. “Also, I’m sincerely grateful to you, Lady Malfoy. For Harry. It was quite brave of you. Legendary, really.” Her breath shudders in her chest as she picks at one of the wounds on her face. “I hope you can find it in you to be brave for Draco in the future.” 

She walks – aimless- in the direction she imagines the fireplace of her origin, and isn’t near far enough when Narcissa’s voice reaches her, muted and disturbed by an acoustic echo. “Draco. You are _never_ to see that vile bitch of a muggle again.”

Draco snorts. “I’m a grown man, mother. I’ll see whomever the hell I please.” His footsteps are quick and heavy upon the hard wood before she hears him calling for her to stop. She does, watching as he fusses – asking her if she’s really okay and can he just look at the fucking wounds please?

They reach the fireplace and Helen suddenly wonders how she’s going to explain this to Hermione and what it will mean for Draco. “Don’t think I blame you, dear.” She rubs her forehead, feeling shaky – like her blood sugar might be low, a little regretful, a little guilty. “This meeting went about as well as I anticipated it would.” She gives a little humorless laugh. “Probably worse, actually, as I couldn’t expect the blood letting.”

Draco tilts her head so he can better see the wounds. “My mother . . . she still holds to the old notions of . . . well, everything. She firmly believes that Malfoys can do no wrong and to gainsay her husband is tantamount to high treason; but I know what happened here affected her more than she lets on.” She gentles his hands away from her face. “Please let me remove the glass at least.”

“I’ll take care of it when I get home.” She smiles at him, sad. “You should talk to her more. I think she’s lonely.” It’s easy for Helen to forget this woman lost her husband, her status, and her sense of self (magic) in favor of thinking what this woman nearly cost her. “She believes she’s losing you.” 

He does that thing that she hates, building walls behind his eyes. “It’s not the Malfoy way . . . to talk about feelings.”

Her mouth twitches but her hands come up to frame his face. “Your mother loves you, Mr. Malfoy. Sometimes, people hold on to toxic things because they’re the only things that feel familiar and reliable.” Honestly, “I . . . antagonized her a bit, I’ll admit. I apologize for that. I’ll write her a formal apology as well . . . “ Her eyes bore into his, seeking. “You are welcome in my home anytime, _Draco_.”

His smile is real, blossoming slowly and reflecting in the stormy gray of his eyes. “Thank you Mrs. Granger.”

"I think you’ve earned the right to call me by my name, don’t you?”

Helen doesn’t expect the seriousness in his expression, the gratitude radiating from his entire form. He hugs her in a burst of . . . something like jubilation as if her name is the very best gift he’s ever received.

“Thank you, _Helen_. And I ---“ He pushes away and gives that look again that she’s become so familiar with, like he desperately has something to say but something is equally desperate in holding him back. “I want you to know, I don’t think that way. Not anymore.”

When she arrives home, several minutes later, no one is there to see the new cuts in her skin or the blood stains settling into her blouse. She wearily trudges up the stairs to clean up and prepare an explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things: 
> 
> I am not completely happy with this chapter but this is how I feel about 70% of my posted shit so *shrug*
> 
> If this chapter seems unfinished that's because a lot of the plot points AREN'T finished. They will be ongoing issues through to the sequel which is now officially titled "Luncheon with Hermione." 
> 
> If this chapter seems emotionally weird, I blame menopause. (I'm not dealing well, I have to admit and I can't take anything to relieve the symptoms.) 
> 
> No. Draco did not know that Helen would be there. (Poor boy just keeps getting ambushed left and right.)
> 
> No. I did not forget about Hermione's request to talk to her parents about the future. 
> 
> Yes. I am working FURIOUSLY to finish this fic before Nov. 1 and NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Yes. I desperately need free time to plan out the sequel T_T Pray for me.
> 
> THANK YOU EVERYONE who sent in activity ideas for the sequel once again - I appreciate it more than you can know! And - in case I haven't made it clear - Thank you to everyone who is reading this story, whether you comment or now and whether you like it or not. I am just thankful you stopped by.
> 
> NEXT UP! It's another Draco + Hermione chapter and there will be an APOLOGY (Finally!!)


	12. Teddy Bear Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is having a hard time. Draco (finally) apologizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG WHAT???!!!! That's right lovies! I'm updating again. I only have 10 days to get this baby FINISHED! BWAHAHAHAHAHA.
> 
> This was actually a very easy chapter to write because I've had Draco's apology written since the beginning. It was just a question of getting there.

R.E.M.’s “The Apologist” is playing over the radio, filling the garage with a slow, funky beat and a string of “I’m sorry”s that have Draco glancing at the speakers every few moments. It’s been a week and a day since Helen’s disastrous tea at Malfoy Manor, and Draco has expressed guilt every day since despite their assurances that he is not to blame . . . acknowledged that his mother is not really at fault either.

Draco always reiterates, “I shouldn’t have left her alone with Mother.” 

Helen had penned a comprehensive apology, admitting her guilt in antagonizing the Lady Malfoy, reiterating her parting advice and allowing that any future correspondence will have to be established by Narcissa. 

There had been no response.

And though Draco has shelved his repeated regret, his eyes still hold the shadow of remorse when he looks upon Helen’s face. 

Richard looks over at the young man as they work to install the refurbished engine on the Chevy Nova. Both are drenched in sweat, their hair matted and skin slicked with grime. Draco’s previously white t-shirt (Ralph Lauren by the tag) is thoroughly stained with grease, muck, and further marked with sweat at his armpits and around his neck. The boxing has built up his arms, the muscles well-defined and flexing as they work. 

Silently.

Richard doesn’t mind though Draco isn’t usually so reticent. Conversation has been spare, touching on how things are progressing at the Manor (“I’m not really talking to my mother at the moment. She can move freely about the wizarding world now . . . and perform some magic, so she hasn’t really noticed anything save that I won’t stop coming here”); his – shockingly expected – betrothal (“The Greengrasses were pleasant enough. It was obvious Astoria’s parents were happy to see me again, and they . . . assured me they still find the betrothal favorable. I’m to visit Astoria next week, to start getting to know each other); and the continuing drama with Lucius (“I don’t know what to do. The letters before only came once a month and now he’s writing every week. No doubt Mother has informed him of my recent . . . attachments.”)

Richard just listens, not really wanting to talk much either. He’s learned Draco will ask for advice if he feels the need for it, more frequently he’s simply venting or needing to talk things out. Today, the only thing he seems to be particularly irked about is the continued, increasingly heated, letters from his father. At one point, as they are lifting heavy equipment together and Draco is complaining that he can just fucking leviosa the thing, Richard inquires if he’s yet made a decision.

They settle the parts into position along the frame, and as he wipes his hands on a flannel, Draco murmurs that, “I’m not certain I’ll ever want to see or speak to Lucius again.” Richard has a feeling that this in and of itself is Draco’s decision but doesn’t say anything except, “Then continue to do nothing.” Right now, the one desiring contact is Lucius. To give in to that desire would do nothing but continue the trend of paternal control. 

When Richard attempts to mine for more information regarding the betrothal, Draco clams up and says he would rather not talk about it.

The sun is low but the dawning spring is hot, particularly in the open garage where there is little air circulation. Richard muses how this project has been much easier than anticipated with a pair of young, strong arms to help with the heavy lifting. Draco hmphs with a decidedly pleased angle to his mouth, “My pleasure.” 

They begin cleaning up the scraps and tools, Draco tripping over his words as he tells Richie how he’s grateful . . . He’s found solace here on the muggle side of things. Using his hands instead of magic, exerting himself physically and mentally in new ways has been an education he hadn’t been aware he needed and longed for.

It’s obvious by the numerous hesitations and stuttering delivery that Draco Malfoy is not accustomed to thanking anyone for anything. 

Richard slaps his back, causing another stain on the boy’s ridiculous shirt, and offers a break, cool drinks and a snack. Draco wavers wondering if Hermione is in the house. Richard assures him, slowly, that she’s not at home, “and it’s about damn time too.” When Draco dares – for the first time – to query as to her whereabouts, Richard – albeit reluctantly - doesn’t go into detail about where she is or what she’s doing. 

Draco sighs and removes his blackened work gloves and dirty shoes – a pair of old trainers Richard had gifted him when it became apparent Draco was becoming a fixture in this garage. They stroll into the house, into the kitchen, and as Richard begins searching through the pantry and refrigerator, he takes note of Draco (who had dutifully washed his hands twice), standing inert near the dining table and notably not sitting down. 

“I . . . don’t want to soil your furniture.” 

Richard assures him with a small laugh that it’s fine as he sets down two tall glasses of lemonade and a tray of chilled hummus, vegetables, and savory biscuits then sits down himself. They eat and drink in private contemplation, the space between filled with the gulping sounds of men dying of thirst and the satisfied “aaahs” of having that thirst quenched. Richard muses about whether it is appropriate to ask further about Narcissa and the hurting evident there – remembers Hermione’s anger at her mother’s wounds and how for a day or so she uselessly prowled around looking for an outlet before deflating to an alarming degree.

Thankfully, she’s been on the mend for the last few days . . . 

Praising the pureblood wizard for his hard work, Richard ventures that if he hadn’t been born with magic he would have made a great engineer or mechanic. Draco just smiles and nurses his drink, eats a savory biscuit whole. 

Trying again, Richard comments about Teddy’s upcoming birthday – he’s turning two, and Draco has opened communication with Andromeda recently, will he be going to the party? Draco confirms he’s received an invitation but hasn’t decided if he will attend just yet. 

Richard wonders if this is due to actual business or avoidance – with Draco, he’s noted sometimes the two are the same. It concerns him, moreso since he’s realized that Hermione has been coping in the same way.

He’s just resolved to just sit tight and quiet when Draco tentatively asks if they – the Grangers – are attending. Richard hides a grin, knowing the reluctant flow of his speech means he’s really wondering about Hermione. He tells Draco that Hermione will be there, but he and Helen will be on a brief holiday to Sardinia. Draco nods absently, gnawing on his lip as he takes up a carrot stick and digs it into the hummus.

Resolving – again – to sit tight and be quiet, Richard is – again – caught by surprise when, eyes to the table, Draco grates out that he’s been wanting to apologize . . . to Hermione but he’s not sure how to approach her. 

“I’ve never . . . I mean, it’s not something I was taught about because a Malfoy is never wrong, but I want –“ He runs a hand through sweat and oil matted platinum hair. He rants, “Should I invite her to meet me somewhere or -- I wants her to know and feel safe or . . . and I don’t know what to _SAY_ – the most important thing – because there’s so much to be sorry for and what if she throws my words in my face (I would deserve that) and,” his breath staggers here, “I . . . want to apologize to you and Helen too but –“

“Hermione first,” Richard agrees then says with gravity and seriousness that Draco doesn’t need to worry about apologizing to him and his wife because the way he sees it Draco’s been apologizing since he first stepped foot inside this house through word and deed. 

Draco protests strongly, and Richard cuts him off, eyes warm and voice soft, saying that it’s been a real pleasure watching Draco grow from the entitled, prejudiced little brat Hermione had told them about and cried over into the humbled, thoughtful and decent young man he is trying to be. “You still need work, a little polishing around the edges, but I and Helen both think you have made great strides in the right direction and have forgiven you whole heartedly. No verbal apology required.”

Draco’s eyes jump around the room, unable to look at him, looking strangely squeezed, choked up and lighter at the same time. He nods, unable to speak for a time, his eyes suspiciously wet and his grip tight around the table edge. 

Shrewdly, Richard mentions that Draco can simply stay for dinner one night and speak to her then – he and Helen would be happy to give them some space. Draco can’t seem to find a comfortable position, slinging his arm over the back of the chair one second then moving it to lying across his lap the next, crossing and uncrossing his ankles, slumping over then straightening. 

Richard continues saying, “I think you’ll find that Hermione doesn’t need nor want your apology either,” and holds up a hand when Draco opens his mouth, “however, I appreciate how much forethought you’ve put into this and how you’re focusing on her best interests.”

Draco sifts his hands through his sweaty hair. “I just . . . you know her better than me. What should I do?”

Smiling at him, Richard leans back in his chair and contemplates the ceiling. “She’s not the only muggleborn you’ve mistreated in the past, I’m sure. What will you do about them?”

“Hermione . . . Hermione was the first muggleborn I ever met and . . . I should have . . . I _did_ see the adults in my life had been . . . grossly incorrect about them, just from that initial first hand experience.” His gray eyes flash in residual anger. “It only took one glance to know she wasn’t uglier than a Gorgon and graceless as troll.”

Richard huffs a short laugh then stuffs his mouth with a broccoli floret. He really, _really_ wants to ask about the existence of Gorgons, but doesn’t think it would be appropriate at the moment.

Draco continues. “If only for that – for proving my parents’ liars – I was angry with her but then there was also her intelligence, house affiliation and – later – her friendships with Potter and _Weasel_ -ly. It was like she was doing everything in her power to draw my vengeance.”

This time Richard does laugh. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Draco doesn’t really respond, saying, “There were other muggleborns, but none I abused quite as extensively as I did Granger. . . . However, I do have plans to apologize to as many people as possible.”

Richard sobers, they drink and eat a bit more, listening to the sounds of neighborhood children, returned home from school, chattering and laughing; the squirrels rustling the branches; the drip of lingering rain water sloughing off the gutters. 

“Hermione . . . she doesn’t suffer fools lightly but she also tries to see the very best in people and – if they’re not being their best - tries to help them _become_ the best version of themselves. It’s why she comes off as bossy and overbearing. She can see a person’s potential but can get carried away in thinking her way of reaching that potential is the only way.”

Malfoy is listening intently, the arrested expression on his face reminding Richard of a sponge, drawing everything in. “But I digress, you’ll want to approach this with simple honesty. Tell her the truth – that you’re sorry, what you’re sorry for, why you think your actions/words/thoughts were wrong and how you plan to proceed going forward.” Malfoy nods, the gesture slow and respectful, carrying weight. “Don’t use passive language. Don’t make excuses or conditions for your trespasses. Don’t minimize her pain or maximize your influence.” At this, Malfoy’s eyes drop to the table again, his face turning a deep red as his throat works. 

Richard catches his eye, pinning him with a grave frown. “And – most importantly – understand that she is under no obligation to accept your apology.”

Richard allows a fond smile when Malfoy takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his flush receding a natural pale. “But I don’t think you have to worry about that. Hermione is a very forgiving young woman. I would even say she’s forgiving to a fault.”

Malfoy snorts, “She would have to be with _Weasel_ . . . ly as a friend.”

This time Richard’s mouth is a sharp imitation of the Malfoy smirk. “You said it not me.”

Malfoy laughs – genuinely – his whole body unwinding from the impossible knot he’s been tangled in for a lifetime.

***

Wednesday finds Hermione ensconced on a padded window seat at the small community library she frequented as a child, glancing out at the world and its patrons in autos and buses and bicycles and skateboards, walking and running, pushing strollers and exercising pets or otherwise going about their business while her hands work the knitting needles, her foot keeping time with the soft library music coming over the PA. 

U2"s "Move On.” _Appropriate_ , she thinks.

The baby blanket is nearly half done, draped over her knees in a soft little cloud of marbled canary, soft ivory, and grey. Though Fleur has proclaimed to certain secret keepers that her baby is a girl, Hermione prefers to err on the side of caution, working up a gender-neutral gift while humming lullabies under her consciously measured breaths. Every knit and purl, she tries to picture what this new addition will look like – long and thin? Short and round? Red hair, blond, or a mixture of the two – a sweet strawberry blond or a light auburn? Maybe the baby will be bald! Will it be quiet and watchful or loud and wanting? When she holds the baby for the first time, will there be bright baby blues looking up at her or another color – brown or a rare green, maybe a mixed hazel? The smooth, soft fibers of the yarn remind her of the silky texture of newborn skin. She smiles.

Hermione loves children. They don’t expect her to have all of the answers or to follow every rule. She doesn’t have to fight to be seen, heard, believed, or trusted with them. They don’t want to use or conquer her. Blood status means nothing to them. 

“It’s coming out beautifully, Hermione.” Mrs. Parks, the librarian, tells her. The woman has known her since she was a tiny toddler enjoying storytime with her mother every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. After beginning primary, her visits became limited to Saturdays when she would negotiate with her parents for more time. Time to browse, time to caress each resting spine, time to read, time to stay there. Mrs. Parks used to call her their very best customer, sometimes letting her help out behind the desk if there was much cataloguing to do.

It was the beginning of her volunteer training. Training that expanded until she was granted shifts as a new teenager when she wasn’t babysitting during holidays and summer break. 

Before Hogwarts, the community library had been her second home, not only because she loved books and reading; but because, as a child, she had always been most comfortable around adults, unable to relate to her peers.

She smiles a brief ‘thank you’ to the librarian, but isn’t in the mood for conversation, unwilling to lose count of her stitches. The kindly old woman moves along to help a young father whose child just knocked down a half row of books. 

Hermione muses: she is still most comfortable with older adults, still awkward when it comes to meeting people her own age. It’s frustrating because she wants to move forward, wants to build something with her own two hands . . . have a career, fall in love, have children of her own . . . travel, if there is time and opportunity between everything else. The first three she has already begun working on. The others continue to hover somewhere out of reach.

Dating is something she hasn’t been sure she is ready for and avoids accordingly . . . or, more accurately, avoided. Her date with Quintus a week and a half ago proved that her initial feeling – of not being ready – is accurate. A shame, really. He was very nice. Intelligent. Well-read. Handsome. From a good family and understanding of the struggle to straddle both magic and muggle worlds without causing trouble for either side. Ron and Harry both vouched for him, approved even – Ron going so far as to fantasize out loud about being in-laws in the near future. 

On paper, Quintus Oakwood is _perfect._

But there had been nothing. No attraction. No common interest. No spark. Nothing. At least on her end. In contrast, he had seemed unreasonably besotted, leaving her to wonder if it was _her_ he was attracted to or _her name_ and the overblown reputation attached to it.

Or (possibly worse) maybe he was just trying to get into her knickers. Something to tell his friends about. Something to sell to the papers. He had asked to kiss her before saying goodnight – this after she had cut the date short by feigning a headache when the world started getting too small and cramped and she could feel a million eyes like ants running across her skin. She had very firmly told him ‘no’ even as he had begun leaning in, his (unpermitted) touch causing her to shudder in discomfort. 

She had practically vaulted inside before slamming and bolting the door.

When she woke the next morning, she had been laid low by an overwhelming, paralyzing depression that rattled through her bones and consumed her body and mind with pain; and she had – uncharacteristically – entertained an extended lie in, sleeping on and off, barely eating or drinking and notably not bathing or otherwise paying attention to personal hygiene for five days. 

She vaguely remembers her mother begging her to go see Dr. Ufuoma, the muffled sound of a one sided conversation and her parents deciding to give it one. More. Day.

She had finally rejoined the living the following Friday, waking up disgusted by her own smell and finding the strength to make it to the shower. A good head to toe scrubbing had invigorated her muscles and brain alike. Her bones had felt like her own again, young and spry. It had been early, not even dawn, and she had sat herself in the dining room reviewing a stack of correspondence from several sources then the latest draft of a business plan, revising. She had drawn up a ‘to do’ list, comprehensive and organized; ate a bit of toast and beans, drank a cup of coffee and another of milk then made her way upstairs to dress and tie her hair up for the day.

Her parents had wanted to question and talk when she told them where she was going; but her mind had been focused on what she wanted to do and – without acknowledging their worries – she left the house, making her way to the library, arriving five minutes before open. 

That day was a Friday. She had left the small library with a stack of fifteen books (the maximum borrow limit) only to return the next day. Cloistering herself on Sunday, she meticulously fingered through the texts, making notes, and writing several missives to be sent by owl when she could find one on loan. Then she was back to the library on Monday, returning daily. Barely sleeping.

Her knitting is a constant companion – had been for months. Books, research – these too are sources of crippling anxiety though she isn’t sure why her former loves had become twisted into a curse to her peace of mind. When she can feel the uptick of her heart beat, the shortening of her breath . . . when her neck begins to tingle up into her face and she becomes convinced of imminent danger when there is (probably) none - picking up needles and yarn gives her something to control, something to form and mold. It gives her something substantial to touch and manipulate in complex patterns, rerouting her brain from chaos and panic to repetition and peace.

She finishes the row, checks her pattern, the length of her project. These are things she has power over, things that help her breathe again. Hermione transfers her needles between hands and prepares to start a new row.

As if awaiting this moment, Mrs. Parks calls, “Hermione, dear, there’s a gentleman at the desk. Can you assist him please?”

Hermione looks around noting that Kerri, the assistant librarian, is currently occupied conducting a crafting group. She wraps up her knitting, places it neatly in her knitting bag. It really is coming along nicely.

Sighing tiredly, she makes her way to the receiving desk, not really paying attention to anything in particular, and is summarily less than prepared when she rounds to face the “gentleman” in question. 

“Malfoy?” Her eyes are as wide as saucers, the skin tight and her eyes burning from too much air. A flash of anger, her instinct is to have him at the end of her wand as her mind conjures the image of tweezers removing glass from her mother’s face and hands. She breathes into her stomach, counting heartbeats. No. It’s not Malfoy’s fault. She closes her eyes deliberately then opens them again, calmer.

He seems just as surprised to see her, his mouth dropping open slightly and body snapping to full height. “Granger.”

She whistles lowly through her teeth. “You continue to intrude upon my territory.”

His expression settles into a familiar smirk, amused and just this side of wicked. “Now you know how I felt for the first six years of our acquaintance.”

She covers a snort with one hand. “Touché, Malfoy.”

He shrugs, still smirking that incorrigible grin. 

She manages to push down the impulse to smile back. “What can I help you with?”

There’s a twitch at his jaw. “You work here?” His tone is flat. Unsurprised.

“No. I’m just a lifelong patron and volunteer.” She pauses, leaning toward him on crossed arms. “What can I help you with?”

He studies her for long moments then tells her he needs a library card. She bends to get a sheet of paper and sets it front of him with an ink pen. “Just fill out this form.” Thinks a moment. “Don’t’ worry about the e-mail or phone numbers.”

His eyes seem to take in everything from her appearance to the scorching, ice storm of pandemonium threatening to burst just beneath the surface. She busies herself with preparing the card, entering his data into the computer – title, name, birthdate. He pushes the completed form to her, and her eyes boggle at the filled in spaces of e-mail and mobile phone number. 

For some reason, the very idea infuriates her and she lifts her head to glare at him even as he grins, eyes practically sparkling a lovely warm cinereous, his hand brandishing a Nokia mobile phone. He shakes it at her teasingly.

The benevolence is real, she can tell but there is also a cloying nervousness that clings around his mouth and lines the set of his shoulders. 

Shoulders clothed with a well-tailored Italian-style suit in slate gray, his tie a counterpoint in plum. 

“I’m going to need your identification card,” she pitches her voice lower, “if you have one.” He had to, have one, right? How does one get a mobile phone contract without one . . ., she looks down at his membership form, or a post office box for that matter.

He hands it over wordlessly, and she can’t help but let out a little agitated whine when she sees that his picture is every bit as stylish and sharp as the real deal. Her identification photo, by contrast, is a disaster. The camera had captured her mid-blink, appearing vaguely stoned, and it had been raining which made her hair . . . _ugh_. She makes a show of checking over the information on the identification card against the membership form. 

“I’m actually rather glad I ran into you again, Granger.” 

She sighs, of course he would want something from her. It seems to be the theme of the week. The Prophet has sent her well over twenty requests for an exclusive interview despite two official refusals and a cease and desist letter. Minister Shacklebolt has “offered” her four very different positions in the Ministry despite her neither being qualified nor interested. He had been so adamant he visited her at home, treating it as a business negotiation, obviously thinking she was holding out for a sweeter deal. 

Her therapist wants her to get out of the house more – by herself- ideally into wizarding London. Her parents want her to start thinking seriously about either university or finding employment. Harry wants her to move in with him at Grimmauld Place (once he returns from Zimbabwe) despite rekindling his romance with Ginny and the fact the thought of that house fills her with a soul-deep dread with its screeching bigoted portrait and too many ties to a war she would rather learn to forget. 

Ron wants her to visit him and his new wife. Their cottage is located in Hogsmeade, deeply embedded in a world he knows she is struggling with. 

Feeling bitter and suddenly sick, Hermione musters a tight smile and for the third time, “What can I do for you?”

Draco takes his ID card back, hands going into his pockets, his shoulders high and head cocked. “Before we get to that, would you mind helping me find some books on business and management?”

Her brow furrows at his . . . still unexpected civility, eyes darting over to her table, stacked with books on the very subject, a half-filled notebook lying ready in wait under her pen. She rubs her thumb and forefinger together, trying to remember the feel of rounded wood and woolen yarn between her fingers. “Of course.” She moves from behind the desk. It’s not too difficult to pretend he’s just another customer. 

She gestures to him to follow her to the appropriate section, saying, “I’m afraid there isn’t much of a selection as this is a community library, one entirely made possible through charity and volunteer workers. There are much larger collections such as the British Library, the London Library, Guildhall, . . . you might also want to look into acquiring a reading card to access the Bodleian Libraries.” She shakes her head, realizing she might be construed as rude. “I have to confess, many of our books on the subject were recently borrowed.”

Even as he peruses the few remaining tomes, flipping through one idly then reading the informational blurb inside the cover of another, she can see the purse of his lips, the twitching edges as he tries to keep a straight face. “I’m aware. I saw your stack as I entered this establishment.”

Rubbing the middle of her chest at the ever-present pressure there, Hermione let’s out a slow breath. “I’m almost done with them. I can hold them for you after they are returned into the system, if you like.”

He chooses one book after intense study, tucking it under his arm. “What do you need with business and management books, Granger? You were instrumental in vanquishing a demon on Earth. I’m surprised you haven’t been made Minister.”

The weight she’s been carrying for what seems like forever seems to double. She rolls her shoulders, massages the back of her neck, wishing her fingers were stronger, that she could reach deeper into the muscles. “What do _you_ need with them?”

He turns to her (unfairly) easily, the smirk she’s so familiar with in place. “I very quietly staged a bit of a corporate _coup d’état_ and stole Lucius’ company.” He laughs without humor. “I also took control of his vaults, properties, and some rather unsavory investments he was dabbling in without my mother’s knowledge.”

She tenses at the mention of his mother and his eyes soften, his hand raising between them as if he wants to touch her. He breathes. She steps back. He continues, “I don’t want to be a continuation; however, the only education I’ve received on the subject was from Lucius.” His gaze is intent and powerful, convicted. She feels exhausted just observing the gravity in him. “I want to be a revolution, Granger.”

Unsure of what to do with that declaration, particularly coming from this particular source, Hermione mutters, “How does one stage a corporate coup d’état, exactly?”

This time his laugh is genuine and she’s a little taken aback that this is the first she’s heard it, after almost nine years. “Very carefully and with many large bribes.”

“I knew if you were involved things couldn’t be completely above board.”

He doesn’t seem offended. If anything he seems unbearably proud of himself. “Slytherin.”

She shakes her head. “It must have been near undetectable. None of the periodicals I’m subscribed to have mentioned it.”

“Yes. Well, I’m paying exorbitant amounts to keep it out of the public eye for now.”

_Then why_ . . . “Why tell me then?”

He leans in slightly, his mouth close to her ear, and she finds herself unable to move. “Because I trust you to keep it to yourself.”

She blinks, not really understanding what to do with that. Malfoy straightens to his full height again. He now holds four books. 

Hermione casts about for something to say, remembering. “You said you were glad to run into me, which is a first in a very long acquaintance.” She finds that she can’t look him in the eye, instead her gaze is drawn to his pocket where his wand no doubt waits. “What do you want from me, Malfoy?”

That palpable embracing edginess she had noticed before becomes even more prominent, his already pale skin falling to pasty and his hands tightening around the books as if to tear them apart. His eyes are unsettled, his tongue repeatedly licks his lips. 

When he speaks, answers, his voice is an uneven rasp, “I don’t – don’t want anything from you, Grang – _Hermione_.” His inhales through his nose with his eyes shut then exhales slowly, his body releasing tension, his hands relaxing, his skin returning to its normal tone. When he opens his eyes, they are aimed and focused on hers, unflinching. “You need to know how sorry I am. I’m . . . beyond sorry, really. I’m sorry for every insult and prank, for every slur and wound. I’m sorry for making your years of study, hell. I’m sorry for being jealous and mean and horrid. I’m sorry for sabotaging you in lessons and looking down on you when I should have been working with you. I utterly regret our every previous interaction, and wish I had treated you with the respect, fairness, and kindness you showed me on the train that first time and after, even when I was being a fucking prat. . . . . I can’t hope to ever earn your forgiveness so I won’t ask for it. I simply wanted this opportunity to apologize. And to let you know that – in the future – should you ever have a need for _**anything**_ I can provide, I am at your disposal. From this day forward, I vow on my magic that all members of the house of Malfoy shall forever be your most humble servants.”

She is staring at him, breathless and speechless as he gives her a small, sad smile, his eyes tender and stands. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’ll just borrow these then be on my way.” 

He edges past, disappearing from the stacks. She remains, heart in her throat, and staring at nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT TIME: It's ANOTHER Interlude. This time, the trio are back together and discussing Draco, the apology, and all of its implications.


	13. Interlude IV:   A Drizzle of Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Trio discuss a few things, including Draco's apology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time is going by SO FAST. Two more chapters after this lovelies!!!! Just TWO MORE then I can concentrate on the sequel for NaNoWriMo!!!

They lay on their backs, the Burrow towering above them, with satisfied stomachs, aching bodies, and warmth in their hearts: Ginny, Harry, Hermione, Ron and Aria. It’s been a busy day full of hanging party decorations, painting, cooking, and preparing gifts for Teddy’s birthday party tomorrow. But even if there hadn’t been a party to set up, Hermione would have been here to avoid being home alone while her parents travel to Sardinia.

The sun is setting. An after-dinner quidditch match had just ended with sweat lining their brows and grass stains on their clothes when Aria suggested someone grab a blanket so they can watch the stars appear. Hermione – as the fifth wheel – is relegated to the middle flanked by Harry on one side and Ron on the other, bookended by the boys’ respective significant others, their blanket a Weasley knitted masterpiece in plaid. 

It’s vaguely uncomfortable. Hermione isn’t really sure if she is in the way, can’t really gauge if her hip grazing Ron’s thigh or her cheek resting against Harry’s shoulder is permissible. She doesn’t want to offend anyone (her lack of love life has been the subject of public perusal quite enough, and she really doesn’t relish being called a Scarlet woman again – particularly when she notably _isn’t_.)

Internally, she stomps down on the quivering maggot trying to burrow into her confidence. These people are her friends. This is a safe place. Here, she is secure. Her palms flatten against the blanket, her fingers digging down uselessly as she casts about for something else to think about, something positive and pure. 

She closes her eyes. It’s nearly night at the Burrow. She’s always loved nights at the Burrow – the air and stars are always so clear. She can hear Molly reprimanding George for some prank or another with Percy’s bland lecturing as counterpoint. Arthur is tinkering in his shed by a harsh, strongly cast lumos and – somewhere – a gnome is digging into nearly-ready carrots and aubergine. 

The smell of freshly turned earth, growing grasses, spring onion and the subtle hint of wild flowers reminds her of Hagrid’s hut, relaxing something long held tight and thorny within her. She sighs, missing Hagrid’s back-breaking hugs and gentle bur, but she . . . can’t visit Hogwarts. She resists the urge to snuggle into her best friends. They aren’t solely hers anymore.

The two couples converse among themselves, and she listens distantly, noting that when they speak it is only of now, their voices soft, tentative. _Intimate_. Whispers and murmurs and pet names and innuendo. Hermione tries not to see the equally soft touches between couples – rough fingers feathering across a dainty wrist, soles of bare feet rubbing along equally bare toes, a hand guiding fingertips across waiting lips. 

She searches her feelings and finds that she is neither jealous of their happiness nor resentful of their attention but afraid at her seeming lack of progress in life. Would she forever be paralyzed to stand still and watch as everyone around her moved on? Would they outgrow her? Harry had a house and a career awaiting him at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Ron was married and had been working with George at the shop for months. 

Even Malfoy is taking up the mantle as his family’s Head of House, shouldering the responsibility with an understated sort of grace and humor.

Would she be left behind, wallowing in this quagmire of ever-looping imagined imminent danger and fear?

She rubs her chest and tries to control her breathing, resisting the _need_ to get up and walk about as her brain begins to catch fire, filling her limbs with a burning restlessness. 

As if he can read her mind, Harry’s hand climbs into hers, his grip strong and tight. She looks over at him to find his face tilted toward her. His eyes are obscured by the glare of the house lights reflected in his glasses, and her gaze traces the line of his nose to the shape of his mouth, immediately noticing the rhythm of his breath and instantly following the pattern with her own.

His hand squeezes hers and as she squeezes back, she blinks back sudden tears. He’s silently guiding her. 

Just when she is feeling calm again, Ginny kisses Harry’s cheek and winks at Hermione, announcing she’s knackered and heading to bed. She’s been in training as chaser for the Hollyhead Harpies this week though the pre-season games don’t begin until August. From the bruises on her arms and thighs, Coach Oliver Wood hasn’t softened since Hogwarts.

Hermione smiles, wishing her a good night. They reach for each other’s hands as Ginny gives her a look that is so gentle and loving, Hermione begins feeling teary again. She knows the red-head has been worried. Ron and Aria both murmur a good night as well and then they are silent as the youngest Weasley shuffles into the house, her cotton night gown whispering against the rushes.

Soon, the sun is a memory, the stars are out full-force, Arthur has long locked up the shed and Molly is at the door wondering when they’ll come in. They tell her they’ll be in soon and she scoffs at young people nowadays wasting the night with prattle. Even the fireflies have returned home and the house darkens as one-by-one the Weasleys retire to their beds.

Aria is laughing at nothing when she suddenly announces jovially that she has to visit the loo. She leans down to kiss Ron’s mouth, smiling with a flash of teeth before glancing at the watching Hermione with embarrassment and glowing cheeks. Ron bites his bottom lip as they part, his hand coming up to touch her face with aching gentleness. Hermione suddenly feels very much like a voyeur for the tender warmth of their gazes. Determinedly, she turns away and struggles to find the very full, very bright moon. She’s not upset . . . there’s just something . . . . It catches on her brain and itches her thoughts until she can concentrate on nothing else but grasping and scratching it. 

Something about Aria and how she adamantly refused a bit of mulled wine, insisting on only drinking water. How Ron couldn’t take his hands off her in a way that was sweetly affectionate and caring, _cherishing_ , rather than sexual. The fall of Aria’s hand over her abdomen again and again as well as the fatigue that shadowed her eyes despite her glowing skin. How every movement seemed more careful, more deliberate . . . 

“Ron?”

“Yeah, Hermione?”

“Is Aria pregnant?”

Ron levers up to look down at her, and Harry sits up fully, his face in shadow. “How did you know?”

The world seems at once too big and too small, the air too thick and too thin. Her lungs collapse and expand both empty and full. She coughs harshly. Harry is hugging Ron’s head in an awkward reach across her body, slapping his back, laughing congratulations.

Hermione takes the moment to ground herself more firmly on the blanket, trying to feel the grass and soil, studying her friends’ limbs and torsos, shadowed and starlit twisting like a great cosmic pretzel above her. 

_Another Weasley baby_. This one half Ron’s.

The boys are still clapping each other’s backs, Ron telling Harry he has to be the god-father, “You’re not getting out of it. Aria agrees with me on that.” Harry sniffs loudly (suspiciously) and nods, “Yes, I’d love that.”

Ron’s smile is electric, striking into her heart like lightning. “And you, Hermione? You’ll be the god-mother, won’t you?”

Her whole body feels hot and her teeth clack together in her mouth as her sinuses ache and her eyes dampen. She reaches up to him, pulls him down so that his face rests in the hollow of her shoulder. She’s breathing too fast, too shallowly. She can only whisper, “I’m so happy for you. You’ve made all your wishes come true.” For a moment, though she can’t see them in the dark, Harry’s eyes bore into her own before she turns her head to press a kiss to Ron’s cheek. “I would be honored.”

He gently pats her opposite shoulder before shifting back to lie down. “Don’t go telling Aria that you know. She wanted to keep it secret for a while longer.”

Harry scuttles his bum down so that his head rests on her stomach. “Molly’s going to throw a wobbly.”

Hermione’s hand goes immediately to his hair, sifting the strands through her fingers, refamiliarizing herself with the texture and length. “No. She’ll be ecstatic. Another grand-baby and so soon too.” Ron’s head tilts to rest on hers. “Aria hasn’t come back.”

She can feel the warm puff of Ron’s breath in her bangs. “She probably fell asleep. She’s been really tired lately. Sometimes she’s taking a kip in at the pub when I get there to pick her up.”

Already, Hermione is envisioning another knitted baby blanket . . . with a matching baby grow, cap and mittens all in white, canary, and mint merino wool. “I could brew her a draught for morning sickness if she needs it.” His hand ruffles into her hair, massaging her scalp. It reminds her of better days when she didn’t feel as if her skin was tearing along invisible fault lines, her insides on full display.

“Actually, it hasn’t been that bad; but I’ll let you know if things change. Thanks, Hermione.” He shifts against her, smacking an unsuspecting (possibly dozing) Harry in the forehead. “Oi, wake up, you great prat.”

“That was uncalled for, Ron! I’m awake, you wanker!” 

Hermione grins, overtaken by a wave of love for her friends. “Constant vigilance.”

They both groan – loudly – while Hermione shushes them. 

When they settle down again, drunk on exhaustion and giggles, Ron smacks Harry’s face again and asks baldly if he’s gotten around to proposing to Ginny yet. Hermione blinks, hoisting up on elbows, “You’re proposing to Ginny?”

Ron answers for him, “He didn’t tell you? Bought a ring in Morroco, he did. Got back from this last trip and asked mum and dad’s blessing.”

So many changes so quickly. _But_ . . . . She swallows down her insecurities, mentally kicks her opinions ( _they’re too young, what about careers and money and_ \--) into a dark corner and flops back to the ground, framing his face with her hands – a pale intimation of an embrace. “That’s wonderful, Harry.” She can only control herself, her reactions. And even that is a struggle most days lately. “She’ll say yes. I promise you that.”

His smile, even just the impression of it in the dark is large and bright and heartbreaking. “Just waiting for the right moment.”

“It’ll come to you, mate.” Ron’s grin presses into the top of her head. “At least one of you will officially be an in-law.”

Hermione’s hand shoots out to backhand his stomach. He ‘oof’s overdramatically, laughing. “Still so violent for such a little thing.” This time she pinches his hip – _hard_ – and keeps her grip there, grinning at the cackling howl that breaks from him as he slaps at her hand. “I’m sorry! _I’m sorry!_ ”

Harry is still guffawing at their friend’s pain even as he asks after her date with Quintus. Ron adds that, he and Aria would like to know why she’s been ignoring the bloke’s owl _and_ phone messages.

The way Ron spits it out at her, like she’s already been found guilty of a crime has her immediately defensive, wanting to say she isn’t obligated to talk to anyone for any reason; but the fact is Quintus did nothing wrong. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t actually _like_ him.

“He’s very nice. I’m just . . . I’m not ready for any of that sort of thing yet.” 

“I thought you were getting better,” Ron says. It sounds like an accusation. She unconsciously folds in on herself, hands pulled in to her chest, elbows to her sides, knees bent and feet together – trying to be smaller, to hide from the insinuation of failure. 

Harry sits up and slugs Ron’s arm before draping himself across Hermione’s hips. “Shut it.” Before he looks up at her through his lashes, “There’s plenty of time.” _To find someone. To get better._

But Hermione actually wants to address Ron’s complaint. “I don’t know if I’m improving.” Her own voice surprises her, small and child-like. _Broken_. “I don’t know why I can’t seem to . . . feel normal again.”

“Overthinking.” Ron and Harry speak in stereo, high fiving at the coincidence. Hermione aims a well-formed reprimanding look at them each in turn. But Harry isn’t cowed, “Don’t get us wrong, you’re brilliant and neither of us would be alive now without your problem solving skills, but you . . . tend to overthink things to the point of paralysis sometimes when it would be more appropriate to go with your gut instinct.” 

Ron interjects, “What he said; and what do you mean by “normal”? Fuck, Hermione, there has been nothing normal about our lives since – maybe - first year, even less second year and everything after third year completely lost the plot.”

It’s similar to something Dr. Ufuoma has told her repeatedly over the year she’s been in therapy. Her entire magical youth was spent burying fear, panic, horror, and suffering (even though they were appropriate for the time) in order to focus on solving, escaping, or fighting to survive. When it became clear that Voldemort and his followers were active and ready to take victims and that the struggle against him would most likely be prolonged, uncertain and bloody, Hermione had reinforced the mental seals on her anxiety. That was in fourth year.

In addition to the strain of puberty, her body became accustomed to being fully aware of everything all of the time and reacting defensively at any unexpected stimulus. Her brain began to process constant vigilance as the norm. 

While these adaptations served her well during the war, allowing her, her parents and friends to make it through alive, they were ultimately damaging. With Voldemort’s defeat, the Death Eaters imprisonment, and the war’s end, she no longer needed to be so focused on hunting horcruxes, evading capture, or dodging spellfire. As soon as her brain registered _safety_ the sealed bottle of negative, disruptive emotions shattered, unleashing years worth of the backlogged bone-deep fear to the forefront of her already overwhelmed, grieving mind.

She can envision Dr. Ufuoma’s kind, dark eyes as she says, _Is it any wonder that you feel out of control, scattered, and afraid? For years, your brain understood you couldn’t be distracted. It stored your real emotions away until such a time when the threat of harm was passed. Right now, your mind is finally taking the time to unearth and process the trauma of everything you went through. Your body may no longer be in danger, but to your mind you are in mortal peril In this moment._

Maybe she’s been approaching her encroaching agoraphobia from the wrong angle. “You may have a point, Ron.”

He nudges her with an elbow.

She wonders if she should tell them about the tentative plans she’s making, about her research and new goals. Opening her mouth, something stays her tongue. 

It tastes like jealousy. 

Her mouth closes. She doesn’t want to share just yet.

Instead, she studies the stars, picking out constellations and reciting their names. When she comes upon the serpentine Draco, something in her chest flutters painfully, and before she can stop herself, it’s out of her mouth. “Draco apologized to me.”

Both boys are suddenly sitting up, looking down at her, incredulous. 

“The great white ferret did _what_ , now?” This from Ron.

“Do you think he’s up to something?” This from Harry, distrust dripping from every word. 

Despite the admitted stealthy corporate takeover, Hermione protests that he isn’t “up to” anything from what she can tell. He’s been . . . pleasant. She tells them about ambushing him at her home, about the unexpected lunch, how sweet he was with Teddy. She tells them about the conversation in the library, leaving out his business dealings and the details of the apology.

“He has a fucking _mobile_?” Ron’s body language suggests he wants to accio the thing and crush it in his fist. “And it’s true? About him and your mother?”

She can feel Harry’s shrewd gaze as she sits up, her eyes focused on her lap, rolling her shoulders, stretching her neck and feeling a pop. “It’s true. Mum and dad seem to like him quite a lot; and he . . . he didn’t fight back when all I wanted was for him to scream and attack me.”

Ron’s tone is dangerous when he asks, “So, what are you trying to say? That we should invite Malfoy to sit with us, break bread, hold hands and sing around a campfire?”

She looks up, her face carefully blank, hands bundled in her lap, nails scratching at the material of her jumper. “I’m saying that he’s different. He . . . When he apologized, he vowed on his magic.”

It’s hard to see with only starlight to illuminate them but she thinks Ron blanches as he hisses, low and long. Harry is still watching her thoughtfully. 

Ron seems agitated, standing to pace in front of the blanket, hands in his hair and torso leaned back as he contemplates the stars. After long, tense moments, he turns on a heel and asks her to tell them _exactly_ what Malfoy said. 

It’s difficult to remember the precise wording but she does her best, and when she’s finished, Ron collapses to his knees and starts laughing great belly deep howls of desperate amusement. Hermione glances at Harry who shrugs before crawling up to her and wrapping one arm about her shoulders, urging her to tuck into him. 

Ron eventually calms though his chortles continue while he explains that Mrs. Granger must have done a number on Malfoy because his apology was on par with a vassal swearing fealty to a king. “He’s basically submitting himself and all members of the Malfoy family to be your house elves.”

That . . . “ _What_?”

“He’s sworn on his magic that all members of his house are loyal and subservient to you meaning that none of them can hurt you, they can’t refuse any material request that you put to them, if another fucking dark wizard rose up in our lifetime, they would all be compelled to protect you and fight by your side.”

Hermione is at a loss. “Why would he do something like that?”

Ron kneels before her, takes her shoulders between his hands and shakes her gently. “Who the bloody hell cares why he’s done it! You could ask him to give you all of his galleons and he would _do it_ **right now** , Hermione.”

She’s already shaking her head violently. “If it is as you say and he’s bound to give me anything he owns, then he has great trust in me to use that bond responsibly and ethically.” The implications are staggering. She feels breathless and confused and . . . _intrigued_. She looks to Harry. He has a grim look to him as he asks her if she plans on seeing him again anytime soon.

She says she never plans on seeing him, and she doesn’t want to disrupt her parents’ relationship with him when he’s given her no reason to. Harry tells her to be careful anyway, he has a gut feeling Draco’s vow has more to do with the protection aspect than anything else, to make amends for what happened in Malfoy Manor.

Ron is disappointed that his friend won’t be taking advantage of their former bully and wartime enemy; but he doesn’t make much fuss, knowing Hermione will always try to take the high road if necessity doesn’t dictate otherwise. 

They talk a little more - about Harry’s permanent return to England, about Ron’s work at Weasley Wizard Wheezes, about going to therapy with Hermione - resuming their prone positions on the blanket, their voices growing quieter and quieter, the words spacing further and further apart until there is nothing between them and the stars save their dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Hermione invites Draco to not-a-date; Narcissa reaches out to Helen.


	14. Dinner (Tea)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many breaks (a break down, a break through, a break in communication) and a not-a-date in this chapter.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: There's a lot of anger and violence in the first part of this chapter and mention of (imagined) rape and mutiliation. No one is actually hurt though. There is also depictions of parental control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's the last one, duckies! Then there will be radio silence for a month!

Hermione considered it a solid victory over her sometimes-debilitating anxiety that she had managed to spend two nights alone in her parents’ house. And despite her talent for catastrophic thinking no one had died, the house hadn’t collapsed, Voldemort hadn’t risen from the dead (again) and the war was still just a terrible memory.

That being said, sleep was long in coming the first night and the nightmares had featured Antonin Dolohov raping her in the Department of Mysteries only to morph into Bellatrix LeStrange, holding her down as she sawed off Hermione’s arm with the cursed blade – to keep as a souvenir.

Hermione couldn’t coax herself back into slumber after that, succeeding only two (poor) hours of rest.

The second night had been a little better as she had taken Dr. Ufuoma’s advice (after refusing potions and medication), massaging a few drops of lavender essential oil into her temples and dabbing a bit of rose onto her pillow. She had slept through the night, waking well-rested for the first time in a long time, and didn’t remember any dreams that may have played through her subconscious. 

She repeats this ritual every night while her parents are away (save for three which she spends at Grimmauld Place, helping Harry move in and renovate at the same time); however, her mood upon waking _today_ is unusually waspish, fuming, _violent_.

She doesn’t know _why_ she is feeling this way; but is internally grateful that she is alone and has no real plans for an outing or visitors. The library would have to do without her, Mrs. Parks would understand. 

Instead, she stomps around the house in her bare feet, most comfy active wear and kerchief about her hair and goes about cleaning the house. She washes walls, wipes down the windows, launders curtains and linens, dusts, sweeps, mops, and vacuums. The expended energy doesn’t lessen the fire in her blood, doesn’t stop her from gnashing her teeth in inexplicable frustration or the way her hands grip everything, including the cleaning flannels, with an overzealous intensity that causes stiffness in her joints.

When she gets to the book room, she stands in the entryway for a long time, wondering where to start and whether to take the books down. It is already evening, the sun’s last offerings fading over the horizon and she hasn’t eaten a morsel all day. Her muscles ache from the stress of her unreasonable ire.

She decides to dust every. Single. Book. She works through the first shelf with a growing tension, her stomach tight and her hands taking on a slight tremor. Her teeth are biting into the fleshy inside of her cheeks and chewing on her tongue. Her back is in rigid knots. She doesn’t know what to do to relieve the fury boiling in her veins. 

Breathing through her nose, she takes the next book, stares unseeing at the cover, leafs through the pages. The words seem to be written in Greek for all the focus she’s able to give the words. With a piercing scream she hurls the tome to the wall, then roars as she pushes the shelf’s remaining contents to the floor. There’s a vase with fake flowers acting as a bookend. She chucks it and savors the noise of glass breaking. 

Books keep flying into walls, her nails aching with the force of clawing them into her grasp then thrusting them away. She even tears a few framed prints off the walls, flinging them like a frisbee and relishing the cracks distorting the pictures. Her lungs are hurting and she can’t seem to suck in enough air but with every object that she throws, it feels like something dark and toxic inside her is ripped out and let go, and she screams each and every time, bestial, her throat throbbing with the strain. 

When there is nothing left to unsettle or destroy, she just bellows with a primal pitch, eyes closed and mouth wide and neck contracted, until her vocal chords refuse to accept the pressure of her erupting diaphragm and all that’s left is a light wheeze. The seemingly bottomless pit of rage inside Hermione quickly empties. The one-person melee ends nearly as quickly as it began.

She covers her face with her hands, sucking in air and trying to count the racing beats of her heart. When she opens her eyes to survey her mess, it’s to find Luna standing at the entryway, the very picture of beatific serenity despite the wand in her hand and bald interest in her blue eyes. 

Still gasping for more oxygen, Hermione explains uselessly, “I . . . I was cleaning.”

Luna’s wide eyes roll up and down and around, taking in the carnage. “I’m sorry to say this, Hermione, but you’re not doing a very good job.”

Even though she has no breath to spare, Hermione finds herself laughing. It begins a visible flutter of her abdomen, rumbling into her throat like a soft vibrating purr, then building into full bodied chortles and guffaws that wrack her whole body, sounding hysterical. 

Luna stands by watching, a small, utterly affectionate smile playing on her lips as she holsters her wand and waits patiently.

As she laughs, sometimes so hard she chokes, Hermione soaks in the euphoria that tingles along her skin and bubbles up from her toes. She feels effervescent, expansive, _clean_. Like all the dark corners have been swept and all the nooks and crannies flushed out. She’s still giggling uncontrollably when she realizes she’s holding her arms out to Luna who picks her way through the clutter to wrap her own around Hermione completely and tightly.

It’s only then she realizes she’s not giggling but sobbing, face wet, hot, and – no doubt – ruddy. She clutches Luna’s thin form to her and Luna strengthens her own hold, containing her because she isn’t able to contain herself.

Luna doesn’t shush her, doesn’t coo or tell her it’s going to be all right. She doesn’t sing or hum or rock her. She doesn’t give her comfort because she knows that’s not what Hermione needs. She, instead, gives her strength, stability, and safety – catching and holding Hermione as she comes down from this breakthrough.

As Hermione’s frame softens, her whimpers calming to an occasional sniffle, Luna loosens her embrace but doesn’t disengage. Eventually, Hermione rests her head on Luna’s shoulder, feeling spent and somehow _new_ , whispering ‘thank you’. 

Smile ever-present, Luna rubs her back and tells her thanks are never needed between friends before asking if she is ready to move. Hermione lifts her head as Luna wipes away the last remnants of her tears. 

“Hello again, Hermione. It’s good to see you again after such a long time.”

They had seen each other two days ago at Teddy’s birthday party; but Hermione knows what Luna means. She feels different. Stronger and, at the same time, utterly exhausted; but most importantly, _hopeful_.

With effort, Hermione finds her feet, reaching down to present Luna an arm – no doubt the other girl’s legs are stiff – offering, “Stay for dinner?”

Luna’s smile widens as she returns, “That would be very nice. May I invite Neville as well?”

Hermione giggles – this time truly – before catching Luna up in an impulsive hug. “Absolutely.”

They edge along the debris, careful of glass shards, arms slung across each other’s shoulders while leaving the slaughter behind.

Dinner is a rousing affair from the moment Hermione enters the kitchen, Luna following after floo calling Neville. And then it is the three of them preparing the vegetables, trimming the meat, falling into each other’s pockets, spilling and mucking things so often a small food fight breaks out amid their laughter and trash talk. 

It is the most carefree Hermione has felt since before the war.

They eat the slightly burnt fare, drink nothing but fizzy drinks and enjoy a small dessert of store-bought chocolate crème pie. Hermione brews coffee while her guests help clean up the dinner dishes and the disaster made in the kitchen. She doesn’t stop smiling, her heart light in her chest after so long being weighed down. 

She knows – logically – that it isn’t over. This is a simple respite after unloading a chunk of her internal suffering; but she’s glad for it, grateful. At her elbow, Neville offers to help her move the coffee pot, cups, coasters, milk, sugar, and spoons into the main room where the three of them sit and continue their conversation – an interesting mix of catching up on old schoolmates, recent news of the magical world and Prophet articles, and personal anecdotes. 

Eventually, Hermione asks, “I’m so glad you stayed, Luna; but why were you here in the first place?” Neville and Luna glance at each other, grinning, and Hermione knows before either of them say anything. 

“I came to ask if you would mind terribly serving as a bridesmaid in our wedding.” There’s no ring yet on Luna’s finger; but she doesn’t need it. The glow in her eyes, her smile echoed in Neville’s proud face is enough. 

Hermione wonders briefly how many more weddings and babies she’ll be hearing about in the next year even as she hugs first Neville then the dreamy blonde watching her gently. “Of course. How could I say anything other than ‘yes’?” She grabs hold of both their hands. “I’m so happy for you both.”

They talk of other couples – new and old and broken. They talk of their families. Hermione tells them about Malfoy, needing a second opinion. Ron, she knows, is sometimes given to hyperbole. Neville doesn’t look too surprised, telling her that Malfoy had visited the Longbottom Estate not too long ago, apologizing to him and his grand-mother, even asked permission to visit his parents at St. Mungo’s.

Luna tells her Malfoy also apologized to her and her father the evening after Teddy’s birthday party though she had assured him such sweet words weren’t needed. He had taken such good care of her, Dean, Mr. Olivander, Griphook, and other prisoners of Malfoy Manor. Hermione takes that to mean he ensured their very basic needs had been taken care of.

But he hadn’t made a vow to either of them.

Neville tells her, “Ron may have exaggerated a bit. This wasn’t an Unbreakable vow as there was no physical contact between you,” he pauses to make sure his assumption is correct, “and there was no magical bonding.” Here he pauses, visibly collecting his words, “Vows are not to be made lightly by a wizard or witch; and Malfoy obviously constructed his with something specific in mind. The magic uses not only the wizard’s words but the intent behind the vow to translate and enforce it.”

Hermione sips at her coffee, murmurs, “I just don’t want to be responsible for making anyone do something they don’t want to do.”

Luna sets down her mug, thoughtful, “I don’t think Draco would grant just anyone that kind of power over him considering . . . ; but you won’t know for certain unless you ask him.” She had thought the same over the last few days but feels shy of seeing him gain. Luna reaches out to run two fingers through the hair at Hermione’s temple. “Wrackspurt.”

Hermione smiles, inwardly making the decision to write Malfoy tomorrow. “Thank you, Luna.”

***

After another good night, Hermione feels refreshed though familiar anxiety is there again, crawling just beneath her skin, up her spine, aching into her sinuses. She chooses to embrace it, use it, control it. She doesn’t want to be scared anymore. 

She writes a note to Malfoy while having breakfast and sends it along with Luna’s borrowed barn owl, Hala, 

_Good morning Malfoy, I have questions about your vow to me. Are you available to meet for lunch to discuss? - Hermione Granger_

His response reaches her mid-morning with a flourish of green wax and silver embossed letterhead,

_Good Day to you Granger, I expected nothing less from such an insufferable swot. Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement for lunch. Dinner? - DM_

She reads the words, rubbing at one cheek and wondering why she feels weirdly _charmed_ before grabbing parchment, quill and ink,

_Afternoon Malfoy, Better than an incomparable git. Dinner will be served at 7 o’clock. – HG_

As soon as Hala flies away, Hermione stumbles to the book room, wand in hand, to clean and organize the mess, repair and restore the broken things. She scrubs down the kitchen again and the bathroom and the furniture in the main room, even though she _knows_ he’s been here before – many times – probably when there was a mess.

Then she wonders why she’s killing herself trying to impress him, because that’s exactly what she’s doing . . . or maybe she’s trying to make up for the last meal she had cooked upon his visiting. Either way, when she tells her dad over the blower about her dinner plans, he jokingly grouses, “Now _you’re_ dating him too???”

She groans and hangs up on him.

When the table is set and dinner – a lovely roast chicken with spring vegetables – is safely warming in the oven, she runs upstairs to change out of her sweaty, dirty clothes and freshen up. For a moment she debates on whether this **not** -a-date requires make up and ultimately decides he can deal with her bare faced and casual, dressed in a novelty t-shirt (sporting large letters reading, “DO NOT READ THE NEXT SENTENCE” followed by small text, “You little rebel”) and jeans. Her hair is left loose and wild.

He can also deal with her bare feet. And bare arm.

God, she hopes he wasn’t expecting seven courses or Wagyu beef and caviar. Or wine. Or -- Merlin’s beard, why was she worrying about this! She doesn’t owe him anything. He should be thankful that she is cookin—

She pulls at the ends of her hair, groaning. What if by _“Dinner?”_ he meant at a restaurant? She had just assumed . . . 

The roar of the floo precedes the sound of rustling fabric and shuffling footsteps on carpet. He appears before her, tall and visibly fatigued. Again, he is dressed in muggle clothes – a thin Henley with three quarter sleeves in blue and dark gray slacks. In his hand is a decorative box in gold and chocolate brown. 

“Lindeth Howe pudding.” He holds it out to her in offering. “I understand it’s quite posh by muggle standards.”

Hermione’s eyes bug out of her head as she numbly takes the exorbitant dessert. “Malfoy, this . . . this costs a _fortune_.” She can’t help but notice as he pauses for a moment, his gaze pinned to the inside of her still red and irritated mutilated arm; but he doesn’t say anything, snaps his eyes back to her face.

“I would have brought our best vintage – a priceless little elf wine; however, I’ve noticed there is never any alcohol in the house, so I thought this might be a pittance more appropriate.” He tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. She just stares at him, fully understanding that this man is _wealthy_ to a degree she hasn’t truly contemplated before.

“Well, th – thank you. For the pudding, and for being so thoughtful about the wine.” It doesn’t escape her notice that he doesn’t mention her father’s prior alcoholism in Australia. He had simply noticed there was no liquor in the house and acted accordingly. She suddenly feels, strangely, that she’s seeing him for the very first time. “You really didn’t have to.”

He sighs, sifting a hand through his already tousled hair. “My mother would tan my hide if I ever arrived to a dinner party empty handed.”

It wasn’t really a party but she understands what he means and truly appreciates that he is putting his best foot forward considering how utterly awkward this whole meeting feels. She rakes her teeth along her bottom lip as they stare at each other, silently studying.

Finally, Hermione breaks, “This is uncomfortable.” Having him in her house, no baby buffers or public witnesses – just the two of them and all their history between.

His amused grin coaxes her own. “For once, I agree with you, Granger.”

She fights to keep the smile from growing. “Well, then.” She resolves, mentally, to set aside her worries and just roll with it for the moment. “I guess, make yourself at home. You’ve been here before so don’t be shy and take a seat.” She turns away to rush into the kitchen with the ridiculous pudding carefully held between two hands. “I hope you like roasted chicken and vegetables.”

She hears him mutter something in return but doesn’t ask for a repeat. Wrestling the chicken out of the oven, Hermione prays silently that she won’t drop it. She walks the dish to the table and sets it down all the while pointedly not looking at Malfoy and imagining she can feel his eyes laughing at her.

As she turns on her heel to fetch the side dishes, he clears his throat and says, “I asked if you need any help.”

She doesn’t turn around. “No, no. But thank you for the offer.” It was still too strange, to see the familiar form of Malfoy treating her with gentlemanly conduct.

Once they are both seated and served (with Malfoy offering to do the carving and Hermione pouring the drinks – soda for her and tea for him), they partake silently and amidst the clink and whisper of eating sounds, Hermione truly wishes she had thought to turn on the radio, a bit of harmless white noise.

“I’m surprised to learn you can cook, Granger.” He eats with knife and fork, his movements precise and elegant. Hermione remembers watching the Slytherin table at meal times with a twinge of envy and wondering how many hours of etiquette lessons it took to make ingestion look like a dance.

“I cooked for you before.” She points out stabbing a bit of asparagus with her fork. “The quiche.”

“Ah, the quiche I never had the opportunity to taste.” He actually sounds mournful.

She glances up at him from across the table and scowls at his self-satisfied smirk. “It was quite delicious if I do say so myself.” Sipping her soda, she casts about for something to say as she has no intention of apologizing for that incident again. “I imagine you’re quite busy lately, with your new business venture.”

He sighs tiredly, “Granger, while I appreciate your effort at polite dinner conversation, it is unnecessary; and I would quite like to get to the heart of the matter of why I’m here.” 

Okay. She licks her lips, setting her cutlery down. He really does look exhausted – too-pale skin and shadows beneath red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. “I . . . understand that you’ve been making apologies – to Neville and Luna specifically.”

He nods, chewing a bit of chicken and aubergine. “And many others.”

“But you didn’t make vows to them.” It’s a statement. Almost a dare.

“No. Just you.” Simple. _But –_

“Why?”

His expression is inscrutable. “Why does anyone do anything, Granger?”

She scowls, biting into her chicken and chewing almost savagely. She should have known he would answer in riddles. “Fine, then. What does it mean?”

Gray eyes take in everything but give nothing away, and Hermione’s brain uselessly points out that only 3% of the world’s population have gray eyes, a derivative of blue. “It means that the present House of Malfoy is dedicated to your care and safety.”

She swallows thickly, her mouth going dry. “What are the parameters; and how does it work?”

An index finger taps a staccato beat against the table before he takes up his teacup and drains the contents, a frown for the spiritless libation. “You can’t expect me to offer up all my secrets, Granger. Why don’t you tell me your concerns, and I will try to assuage them.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to lambaste him for putting them in this position in the first place and keeping pertinent information from her in the second; but the previous explanation stops her – _dedicated to your care and safety_. It’s obvious he means her no ill will. 

She just hopes she isn’t wrong in giving him the benefit of the doubt. “Ron . . . I was told --” She strongly doubts Malfoy will react favorably being compared to a house elf. “Will it make you do anything you don’t want to do?”

He snorts, somehow distinguished, “Forget anything the Weasel told you. This isn’t an Unbreakable Vow. I won’t perish if I refuse a request from you.”

Relief sweeps through her, more powerful than she would expect; but he didn’t actually answer her question. “But you will be . . . compelled to grant a request?” She certainly hopes not. It sounds too much like _imperio_ , dark magic.

“Under certain circumstances, yes.” His mouth is a sharp, striking near curve that reminds her of snakes and crocodiles. “However, I highly doubt you would ever ask for anything to begin with let alone something I would object to.” 

She worries her lip, resisting the urge to rise and pace. “I’m not a saint, Malfoy. I’m as liable of being selfish as anyone else.” His grin is betrayed by the blankness of his eyes. “If . . . if you do refuse, what happens?” If this was – indeed – a magical oath, there will certainly be reprisals for the failure to fulfill that oath.

“Pain, I imagine. Particularly if a Malfoy commits or plans an action that will bring you harm.” The answer is colorless, offhanded, bland as if the suggestion doesn’t matter a wit. “The intensity and duration would depend on the specifics of the situation and the intention. I suppose a cessation of magic could also occur.”

Incredulous, “You’re not sure?”

He merely smirks, eyes dark with secrets even as he eats. “What other questions do you have for me?”

She looks down at her plate, moving the food about, nervous. “Who does the vow affect? Is it –”

“Just the present existing blood Malfoys.” Which would be his father and himself, possibly cousins if they exist. She can tell by the set of his mouth that he’s conflicted in telling her.

“Not your descendants?” _Please say no._

Malfoy sets down his knife and fork, piercing her with the intensity of his glare. “No. I do not want any child paying for my sins.” She swallows at the real pain tattooed in that statement. Her fingers itch to touch and comfort.

Her gaze still arrested by his, she works her throat, remembering Ron’s words from that night under the stars. “So . . . if I were to ask for your galleons, would you give them to me?”

“How many galleons?”

“All of them.”

He sits back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest and sneering. “Do you want my galleons?”

She shakes her head.

“Do you _need_ my galleons?”

“No.”

“Well, then, no, I will not be making a bank draft in your name.”

Hermione latches onto his inquiries. “Then the fulfillment of the vow is based on necessity?”

Malfoy’s smirk is the murky sort of joy that comes from having the upper hand and knowing it. “Yes and no.”

Frustration has Hermione flushed and shooting out of her chair to begin clearing the table in jerky movements. In a nasty tone, she asks Malfoy if he would like dessert, but he doesn’t answer with words. 

As she fills the sink and begins scrubbing the dinner dishes, something surreal happens as he takes up the space next to her and brandishes a dishcloth, waiting to dry. They work in silence for long minutes before Malfoy begins, “I was deliberate in my construction of the vow, _Hermione_. Intent and your needs are the key factors in creating a compulsion. You are simply going to have to trust me to know what I’m doing the way I’m trusting you to refrain from exploiting my oath to you.”

She reluctantly raises her eyes to him, allowing him to see all her apprehension. “Can it be undone?”

He nods slowly, taking the last dish from her to wipe and set it in the now full dish rack. Hermione purses her lips, two questions on the tip of her tongue, though she’s reluctant to ask, knowing he will evade. 

Instead, she dries her hands and faces him directly, slightly unnerved by how close he is and how she has to tilt her head back slightly to address him. “This . . . is difficult for me.” She doesn’t relish not knowing, doesn’t like not having the full picture.

Warmth seeps into his gaze. “I know.”

Nodding, she gathers her courage, gently grabs his wrist. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. You didn’t have to apologize to me, but . . . I truly appreciate it.” She smiles shyly. “It was lovely.”

He smiles back at her, eyes shining, but doesn’t stay long after that, claiming that he’s been working near straight with no rest for three days and is more than knackered. She offers to plate a bit of pudding for him to bring home, and he gives her the stink eye for her trouble, refusing in no uncertain terms and telling her to give her parents his regards.

She follows him into the main room, fussing with her hands and randomly wishing she was wearing shoes. “Take care, Malfoy.”

He steps into the fireplace, floo powder sifting through his fingers into the grate, when he looks at her with a purposeful kind of stare. “See you around, Granger.”

And with a shout and a bright green roar, he’s gone, leaving Hermione to wonder after her pending answers and unasked questions.

***

When Draco arrives in the Manor, nearly all the rooms he trudges through are dark. He extends his arms first front then overhead, trying to stretch the catch between his shoulders. He had been equal parts reluctant and anticipating the dinner with Granger, if only to hear what questions she had come up with, what portions of his vow she had taken note of. 

And the company was nice, he supposed. 

As he passes the drawing room, he places his hand against the wall, tracing the contours as he walks. The day he apologized to Granger, he had resealed this room, wanting to now look forward rather than wallow in his and his family’s past mistakes and the trauma that resulted from them.

The following weeks have been overly filled with Ministry visits, meetings with the Board of Executives, meetings with his solicitors, meetings with an estate agent, and house viewings in addition to his gym and running schedule. These are what he has to look forward to again in the coming days with a possible visit with the Grangers once they return from Sardinia in a few days . . . more amends-making . . . . Dinner with Granger had been a much-needed breath of fresh air and woefully too short.

He struggles up the stairs to his wing, mentally listing everything that must be done tomorrow and the day after. First order of business: hire an assistant. 

As he approaches his bedroom, he sees his mother gliding down the hall before him like a particularly ethereal apparition. His heart feels heavy and cold watching her back. They haven’t had a real conversation since Helen’s visit nearly two months ago; and though he is not going to back down, he can admit he misses her desperately.

He must have made a noise because she startles and turns, wand at the ready, and lowers it when she realizes who is approaching. “Draco. I thought you were already abed.”

“I just arrived home.” She is as beautiful as she was when he was a boy though the estrangement between them has caused some wear around the edges. He can see the stress lining her eyes and mouth, the defensive set of her shoulders. 

“Did you have dinner? I can call upon –“

“I had dinner with an acquaintance. Right now, I just want to have a bath and sleep.” Which is a shame, really. This is the most they’ve spoken in too long. He should be happy, but all he feels is disappointment and overtired of fighting.

Narcissa’s bearing shifts from relieved to offensive, her shoulders sliding back and her head held at a haughty angle. “Was it the muggles?”

He clenches his teeth, hissing through his teeth. “Mother –“

“Why are you trying to hurt me with this, Draco? I’m only asking –“

“You are _NOT_ asking. You are _TELLING_ me who to spend my time with, who to socialize with.” His fists dig into his outer thighs. “Allow me to remind you of how things turned out the last time you and Lucius chose my associations.”

Her hand comes to rest on her chest. “You are _breaking my heart_ –“

“I am _trying to live my life_ , Mother! I am not doing anything to hurt you. I am not trying to break your heart. I am making my own fucking decisions because that is what _adults do_.”

She is crying, her tears reflecting the candlelight, an image of tragic dejection; but his sympathy ran dry a few weeks ago as he realized she could cry with little effort or genuine distress. This manipulation had hit him rather hard, making him wonder at every time he had tried to exert some independence only to pull back at the sight of her weeping.

“I am the Lady of this Manor, Draco, and the acting Head of the House of Malfoy. I will _not_ be defied.” Her voice quivers but her body is still, poised. 

His eyes narrow and something familiar, poisonous and ugly licks up to his throat like regurgitated bile. “ **I** am the _Lord_ of the Manor, Mother, and the _true Head_ of the House of Malfoy.” He flexes his fingers as his magic pulses wandlessly and the Manor itself responds, filling the air with static, heeding his call and proving his claim.

For a moment, fear flashes through Narcissa’s eyes before she remembers herself and subsides, bowing her head in an imitation of respect. “Your father?”

“Still in Azkaban.” His tone gentles slightly. Despite their differences, she is still his mother. “And otherwise neutralized.”

When she looks at him again, her face is dry and her eyes are measuring. “What have you done, Draco?” He can’t decide if she sounds weary, disappointed, or intrigued. “What other secrets are you keeping from your mother?”

He takes the remaining steps to his suite, dropping the wards and pushing the door open. “I’m currently searching for an alternate residence.” He pauses, allowing her to process that. “Soon, you’ll have the Manor all to yourself.”

As he turns his back to enter his room, his mother asks in a small voice that he cannot parse from deception. “Has it happened, son? Have I lost you?”

He sighs, feeling the weight of utter loneliness press down on his shoulders. “How could you lose me now, Mother, when you gave me away so long ago?”

When he closes the door between them, the depth of the wood prevents him from hearing her sobs.

***

When Helen and Richard return home, they are tired, tan, and visibly less stressed, their smiles easier and eyes brighter. They are wearing matching outfits, and Helen is complaining about all the laundry that needs getting done now they’re back. 

Hermione meets them at the door with ready hugs and kisses as her parents tell her – happily – that she seems to have gained a little weight and something is improved in her eyes. 

"Could it be your dinner date the other night that’s put that spring in your step, love?” Richard laughs when Hermione swats at him. 

“It wasn’t a date!”

Later, after a simple dinner of Mexican take away, Richard has retreated upstairs to soak and Hermione is in the main room writing in a well-used notebook, no less than seven open books flanking her. Helen, muscles loose from her shower, flops onto the couch, a stack of post in her hands. “What are you writing, darling?”

Hermione smiles brightly, hugging the notebook to her chest. “It’s still in the planning stages . . . . I’ll talk to you and dad about it tomorrow, yeah?”

Helen’s stomach suddenly feels empty. “I’m so sorry, dear. We were supposed to have a family meeting about –“

Laughing, Hermione reaches over to grasp her mother’s hand. “It’s fine. I hadn’t really thought things though before, but I’ve been doing a little research and now have a better formed plan.” It’s obvious something has happened while they were gone, and Helen cannot be anything but glad for it, seeing her daughter so full of apparent hope and vim and vigor.

“Tomorrow?”

Hermione nods before going back to her notebook, scribbling with sure strokes.

Helen regards her for a few moments, thinking how much she missed her, how thankful she is to be sitting here in this house with her not-so-little girl. With an irrepressible grin painting her lips, she sifts through the mail, arranging each envelope by priority until she comes to familiar high-quality stationary in shining gold, this time with an official looking green wax seal.

_Narcissa._

With tongue between teeth, Helen tears into the envelope, uncaring, fishing out the satiny parchment lacework with its gold leaf and calligraphy. This time it isn’t an invitation.

_Mrs. Granger,_

_I realize you have no reason to accept this letter, much less to read or respond. My behavior after inviting you into my home was abhorrent and wholly unworthy of the House of Malfoy. I humbly apologize. You are obviously not a monkey or virus or . . . insect. Honestly, while I am jealous of the bond you have forged with my son, I have also held a healthy respect for you._

_You could have reported your injuries to the Ministry of Magic. I could have ended in Azkaban alongside my husband. For your undeserved discretion, I am in your debt, Helen._

_The events of 30 March, 1998 will forever burn in my memory for many horrible reasons. You should be aware, your daughter Hermione never gave in to the torture my sister brought upon her. She was a fierce lioness, loyal and true to her friends and the Order. There are no words strong enough to express my shame for the dark days my husband ushered into our home with his blood mania and subservience to Voldemort’s madness._

_I do not expect nor ask your forgiveness, though I wish it. And while it is the very height of gauche to do so, I am asking for your help._

_You were right. I am losing Draco. Please help me. Allow us to try again._

_Slytherins are not known for their bravery, but we are quick to learn when given a prime example to follow._

_Thank you for reading my letter. I look forward to your reply._

_Respectfully,_

_Lady Narcissa Black Malfoy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PTSD/Anxiety/Depression - there are many ways they manifest themselves. Just because someone seems functional and busy doesn't mean they are okay. 
> 
> I'm not endorsing essential oils though I LOVE them and have had a lot of success with them - particularly where sleep is concerned. 
> 
> Some might think I have it out for Narcissa, but I truly don't. She's got a long road ahead of her and deserves a little sympathy. 
> 
> NEXT (The Last) CHAPTER: Hermione reveals her plans for the future; Helen and Narcissa have tea (reprised); Hermione and Draco run into each other and unknowingly begin a tradition.


	15. Luncheon (Tea)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione shares her plans for the future. Narcissa has tea with the Grangers. Draco is invited to lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it lovelies! THE END (that isn't the end). I literally wrote FIFTEEN chapters just for the very last moments of this fic. 
> 
> I'll see you all on December 1 with the sequel (hopefully finished), Luncheon with Hermione Granger.
> 
> If you would like an idea of what the sequel will hold, please check out "Crystalline" by Poets of the Fall.

As promised, the next day, Hermione sits down with her parents like they’re in a boardroom rather than in their house main room lounging on their sofa and presents her goals for the future.

First, a book – already thoroughly outlined with a schedule of arranged interviews and a growing list of pertinent research sources. She wants to write a guide book for muggleborns and their parents, sharing all of the knowledge she and her own had to glean through experience and outright inquisition. Her purpose is to make transition a little easier, prevent future muggleborns from being blindsided by wizarding cultural differences and . . . the possibility of continued prejudice. Hermione has already found a publisher who was more than happy to work with one third of the Golden Trio; and a comprehensive writing schedule is included in the extensive outline.

She asks Helen and Richard if they would be willing to be interviewed, and they readily agree, excited by the prospect. This is something they would have utilized fully while learning about Hermione’s new life as a witch. 

Second, building on the book idea, Hermione has reached out to Headmistress McGonagall as well as the head administrators of the other magical schools to measure the need and demand for a muggleborn relations consultant, someone familiar and fluent in both worlds to make the first contact with muggle parents of identified muggleborns. Further, someone who could – potentially – help squibs born to purely magical families transition into muggle communities. 

Thus far, feedback has been favorable; and Hermione has prepared a business plan to create her own consulting firm with several muggleborn and half-blood candidates of her acquaintance interested and ready to take up consultant positions should the idea come into full fruition.

Third, she has already contacted the Board of Governors to overhaul the Muggle Studies course curriculum to provide more comprehensive and up-to-date information on muggle current events, culture, science, technology and art with proposed field trip options and suggested guest speakers / presentations. 

The over-reaching goal, she says at the conclusion, is to narrow the gap between muggleborns and lifetime magic users in education as well as community. 

Helen and Richard are appropriately awed and encouraging, making suggestions and asking questions where warranted. They can’t help being utterly proud that, even slowed by anxiety and depression, their daughter has exceeded all expectations with her thoroughness. She is crisp, focused and _excited_ , her eyes filled with a fire they haven’t seen in too long. 

She resembles the Hermione they remember from _before_ , bright and shining with the pursuit of knowledge and purpose. 

Helen gets misty-eyed watching and listening to her in spite of the smile on her face. She suddenly knows, without doubt, that her baby girl is going to be okay. It might not be tomorrow or a year from now, but Hermione is going to be just fine. The relief is bone deep, muscles she had not been aware of aching with tension, release, suddenly weak and trembling.

Beside her, Richard let’s out a breath that is so long and deep, she wonders if he’s been holding it since they’re memories were returned. Their hands reach out for each other, finger entwining and holding firmly.

Hermione asks what they think.

There really isn’t anything they can add, save that they are completely impressed by the prep work she has done in every tier of this plan of hers. Helen wonders aloud how they can help her in addition to providing interviews before Richard iterates they will support her in any way they can. 

Hermione assures them with a grin that this is all she needs from them. She has everything in hand and will use money she was awarded by the Ministry for her role in the war as seed money for the consulting firm should proper contracts be negotiated eventually.

She looks at the clock and gathers her materials, smiling, “I actually have an appointment to interview a few classmates and their families tomorrow as well as Mrs. Arabella Figg.” Her mouth falls into a frown. “I called Harry’s Aunt, but she hung up on me as soon as I introduced myself.”

Richard pats her hand in sympathy. “You win some, you lose some, love.”

Hesitating, Helen watches Hermione warily. “Darling . . . if you do this, you’ll have to work – at least partially – in the wizarding community.” The very same wizarding community she has been avoiding for over a year. 

While Hermione’s eyes reflects a tinge of stress at the thought, her body language suggests acceptance, a small tension in her shoulders but otherwise relaxed. “I . . . am a witch.” She states carefully. “I fought a war – partially – to prove my mettle as a muggleborn to the wizarding community.” Her eyes turn to the front window, draped as it is in semi-sheer curtains, watching the distorted outside. “It would be cowardly and a waste to leave permanently. . . . when there’s so much work left to do.”

She goes on to say there’s one more goal she’s been corresponding with Headmistress McGonagall about – finishing her N.E.W.T.s. Since she is so much older, her former Professor suggested studying by correspondence with testing to be held with the returning seven years. She’ll have the summer and the next school year to complete everything, and – more than anything else – she wants to. Already, she has a list of potential thesis topics for her graduation project.

Richard has long grown accustomed to his daughter’s flair for organization and efficiency. “You’ve been working so hard right under our noses. Are you sure you want to tackle all of this . . . simultaneously?”

Hermione pulls on a lock of hair. “I’m not really. The N.E.W.T.s are the most immediate thing. I can write the book while I prepare.” She thinks, tapping a fingertip to her lips. “The Board of Governors has invited me to a hearing regarding the proposal for a new Muggle Studies course. It’s to be held in August. And the consulting idea - right now, I’m just trying to gauge the demand. All three European schools have forwarded their current list of muggleborn students as well as the names of incoming first years. I’m planning to contact the current students and their families this week then the incoming first years after initial contact is made by their schools. I probably won’t begin putting things into motion until I have concrete data from those interviews and the proper backing.”

Wide eyed and unsure what to do with all of this information, Helen asks, “Have you . . . spoken to Dr. Ufuoma about all of this?”

Hermione nods seriously, “I’ve been checking in with her every step of the way, Mum. I don’t want to use this as a crutch or become so involved that I forget to . . . process things. I’m just . . . I just want to move on. I’m ready now. I want to start building something for myself.”

Helen regards her daughter, feeling the fountain of love and affection she has for her overflow. 

A year ago Helen had been recovering from the trauma of her self-inflicted wounds and involuntary commitment. A year ago she had just remembered she was – in fact – the mother of a beautiful young woman who was also an honest to goodness witch. A year ago she had been told that this witch daughter had been instrumental in the demise of a dark wizard who had menaced the wizarding world for two generations. She had been told her daughter had nearly died, and choked on the realization that if her daughter _had_ died, Helen would have lived the remainder of a fake life in Australia always feeling like something vital was missing. 

A year ago, she had been tied up in a thorny knot of anger, betrayal and shame. She had held herself emotionally distant from the child she loved more than her own life and lashed out at a boy who was in as much pain as they all were. 

As she entertains nostalgia, Helen takes a moment to thank the Powers That Be for allowing her to let go her own pride and past trauma to heal and embrace this second chance with her baby girl; for opening her eyes to Draco’s pain and cultivate an unexpectedly rich friendship with him; and for this day, for Hermione’s resilience and trust. Things could have gone so differently, so wrong. 

Helen moves to hold her not-so-baby-girl, trembling a little with an outburst of emotion she hadn’t been aware she had been storing in her muscles. “I’ve missed you so much, baby.” It’s a mere whisper, breathed with a tone of palpable relief and love.

Hermione gives a small laugh as she returns her mother’s embrace and locks moist eyes with her father’s shining ones. “I love you. I love you both so much.”

Closing her eyes, Helen breathes in her daughter’s scent and remembers when she smelled of Sudocrem and baby oil. Then she thinks of another mother whose circumstances and choices _had_ steered things in the wrong direction, and she makes a decision.

Later, after dinner and a shower, while enjoying a nice cuppa, Helen pens a response to Narcissa’s plaintive note, saying only: _Tea. April 22nd. 1:30 pm. My house. Arrive by floo and leave your prejudice at the Manor._

***

A week later, on Sunday, Helen is setting the dining table for tea. After much discussion between herself, Richard, Hermione and a rather awkward chat with Draco, it is decided that only Helen and Richard will host Narcissa.

Hermione decides to leave the Lady Malfoy to them, taking the opportunity to visit Harry before he leaves for a month long Auror training camp. She has been practically living at the community library this week when she isn’t conducting interviews, writing correspondence, or keeping up with therapy. 

Mrs. Parks has told Helen that Hermione arrives at open almost each day, parks herself at the same corner table and meticulously sets out a series of books and notebooks, each opened to a specific page (it changes daily) and unpacks a shiny laptop which she blithely types away on. She only takes breaks for the loo, two snacks from the vending machines, and coffee.

After that conversation, Helen is always sure to pack Hermione a healthy lunch into her ever-present beaded bag.

“How do I look?” Richard, just arrived from upstairs, holds out his arms and turns slowly. He wears a forest green polo with his black suit trousers and loafers. It’s obvious he’s just been in the shower, his hair holding a little damp and his face is – obviously – freshly shaven. 

Helen walks over to him, straightens his already straight collar and raises on her toes to kiss his cheek, nuzzle at his neck. He’s wearing the cologne she likes and makes her mouth water. “You look like I wish we could go upstairs and –“

Just then, the floo erupts in green, illuminating the doorway to the dining room where they stand. A beat and then a feminine sounding cough, the faint swish of – no doubt – high quality fabric. 

Charging into the main room, Helen is taken aback by the vision before her. Narcissa is quite literally wearing a gown - champagne in color, full-sleeved and off shoulder, encrusted in glittering jewels – with her platinum blonde locks twisted up into an ornate arrangement secured with gild and diamond combs.

Richard stutters a hello as he stares with his mouth open while Narcissa glances down her nose at everything, notably straight-faced and saying nothing.

Helen rolls her eyes and sets her hands on her hips. “This isn’t bloody Buckingham Palace or a fucking royal wedding, damn it.”

Narcissa sniffs, spine visibly straightening, defensive. “I wasn’t certain of the dress code.”

Muttering under her breath about hoity-toity rich people and their ridiculous formalities, Helen gestures for the other woman to follow them into the dining room. “For future reference, the house dress code is casual unless otherwise stated.” She grabs Richard’s hand, “Allow me to introduce my husband, Richard.”

Offering a hand, Narcissa gives a little surprised noise when he grips it in a firm handshake. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Her hand hovers over her dress, but she doesn’t wipe it. Helen snorts as Richard grins, offering, “I’ll play mother if you like.” 

Narcissa makes a noncommittal sort of gesture. Richard pulls Helen’s chair for her then Narcissa’s, taking his with a customary groan. 

“Thank you for inviting me into your home, Helen. I am . . . grateful that you not only read my letter but responded so favorably. I will be in your debt for the rest of my life.” She bobs her head in thanks as she takes her tea – hesitating only a bare second – and gingerly places her wand on the table. 

Passing the sugar, Helen tuts, “Don’t thank me yet.” She’s absolutely certain Narcissa will not be pleased by their advice. “We’ve spoken to Draco about his side of things. We would like to hear yours.”

As if she hadn’t heard a word, the Lady sips her tea, her expression placid despite the cringe about her eyes. Helen grins wolfishly, remembering Draco’s first tea with her. “It’s instant.”

Narcissa licks her lips daintily. “Quite.” Then she sighs. “My son talks to you. He’s . . . changed, no longer obedient or following the long-standing Malfoy traditions. I find that . . . I’m uncertain how to . . . relate to him?” Then a frustrated gesture as she takes up a finger sandwich, bites and swallows without the prerequisite chewing. “Pureblood families are raised to be loyal to their families. The well-being of the family is priority over the desires of the individual members. This is how we have managed to survive thus far.”

Richard stirs more sugar into his tea, liking a purely sweet brew. “I understand Andromeda is your sister.”

She looks startled that they should know. “Yes. Yes, she is.” She stares down at the table as if contemplating when it was last cleaned. “I didn’t agree with my parents’ decision to disown and cut her out of the family, and I admit . . . I tried to convince her to leave that,” she glances at them in turn, “ . . . Ted Tonks. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just fall in line and accept the match our parents’ had arranged.” She stares into the depths of her tea, neglecting to mention that she had also failed to understand how anyone could love a muggleborn let alone forsake the family for one.

Helen pushes a plate of biscuits towards the pureblood witch. “I imagine it never occurred to you to speak in your sisters’ favor then.”

Narcissa sends the muggle woman a sharp look. “One does not speak against the Head of one’s House, Helen. Particularly when one is a minor.”

Leaning forward, Richard spoons clotted cream onto his raspberries. “And is it permissible for a wife to speak against her husband’s foolhardy decision to join a dark wizard on a mission of potential genocide?”

Jeweled cloth clatters against the table as Narcissa roles her wrist against the edge, her skin pale. “Not in public . . .” She bows her head and whispers, “not in private either. When the Dar – When _Tom Riddle_ began gathering followers, I was only newly married. I didn’t love Lucius then nor did I truly know him. He had been above me at Hogwarts and our contracted visits were of the obligatory variety. We . . . didn’t like each other or share very much about ourselves. When I became aware of his dealings with Riddle and the work they were trying to do, I wasn’t . . . overly concerned. My family has always held that wizards and muggles remain separate. Riddle’s propaganda – at first – didn’t involve murder, just the rejection of half-bloods and muggleborns from our world.”

She takes a long drag of tea, wetting her throat as Helen and Richard listen raptly, before dabbing the corners of her mouth with the corner of a serviette. “When they began . . . attacking people, I was pregnant with Draco and concerned my husband would end up in Azkaban. I told Lucius I wanted him to get out, but he had that . . . tattoo on his arm. I remember screaming at him – how could he – a pureblood – take a half-blood as his _master_? It was demeaning and unworthy of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but once he had taken the Dark Mark, there was nothing to be done.”

Helen nods. “Draco said something similar. He said Voldemort could track him through the tattoo.” She wants to ask about the torture Draco endured – whether it was Voldemort himself that administered it or if it were someone else, even Narcissa herself; but she won’t. It isn’t the right time. It isn’t the right conversation. It may never be.

Narcissa bats her eyes, shifts her silverware around her place setting. “I never wanted Draco to be pledged. Lucius believed it would save our family’s standing within Death Eater ranks. He believed that _possibility_ trumped our son’s freedom.” There’s a momentary pause as Narcissa meets Helen’s gaze directly; and Helen is brought back to a dark theatre, a flash of cinematic light as a boy as blond as the woman before her declares his hatred for his father. “I will _never_ forgive Lucius for making that decision.”

Richard pours himself another cuppa, having drained the first. “Draco knows you didn’t want him to get the Mark though he has admitted he wanted it to please his father.” He adds his sugar, a little milk. “At the risk of sounding judging, I don’t understand why you and your husband allowed things to go that far.”

“I . . . As I said before, one does not speak against the Head of House. I did what I could to protect my son –“

“At the risk of someone else,” Helen mutters into her cup. 

Narcissa glares. “But it wasn’t enough.” She covers her eyes with one hand. “I had been relieved – so relieved – when Riddle perished nearly nineteen years ago . . . despite the failure to prevent the . . . muggleborn intrusion. Had I known then what I do now, I would have taken my son and divorced Lucius, regardless of societal reprisals.”

Helen sips her tea, watching the blonde woman from under her lashes. While Narcissa seems genuine, Helen has to wonder why she is being so with two people who represent a culture she has categorized a nuisance worthy of subjugation. “And what are you willing to do for your son now?”

Setting down her teacup, Narcissa’s expression is openly confused. “I . . . assumed you would communicate with my son on my behalf.”

Scoffing, Helen feels her body tensing, her brain and vocal chords readying a tempered volley of assertive words, but before she can utter an agitated syllable, Richard lays a hand on the table to draw Narcissa’s eye. 

“If that’s what you expect, I’m afraid we won’t be able to help you.”

Even more confused, Narcissa’s features screw up into a scowl. “Then . . . why am I here?”

Richard’s hand on the table folds into a loose fist. “ _We_ are not the ones who brought you to this point with Draco.” He levels a steady gaze on the Lady. “If you want Draco to talk to you, you first have to _listen_ to _him_. _You_ have to get to know the person he is becoming regardless of your own plans for him. _You_ have to be willing to admit to your mistakes and make amends for the pain you and your husband have caused him.” She tears her eyes away from him, pouting; but he’s not done. “ _You_ are going to have to do the hard work of learning to let go of the control you believe yourself entitled in order to embrace and support this new independent version of your son, whether you like his decisions or not.”

For a moment, Helen believes Narcissa will stand and leave; however, the blonde woman’s childish sulk eventually clears, leaving a beautiful face that is ringed in a solemn kind of long-suffering droop. “I lied to Voldemort for my son,” she speaks softly, fingers tight on her cup handle. “I love him enough to be . . . better.”

It’s not a repudiation of past or present bigotry; but Rome wasn’t built in a day. Helen smiles, reaching out to press her fingertips to Narcissa’s wrist, feeling the miniscule pull when she stops herself from pulling away. “Excellent.” 

***

Draco has just finished a satisfying if punishing workout, his leg and arm muscles vibrating slightly with a disingenuous release of energy. Sweat still stands on his brow and his chest and abs are tight. He’s fairly certain he smells; but he can’t be anything but chuffed, smiling as he hefts his charmless duffle and makes his way down the boulevard.

He fully intends to go straight to the apparition point and have a nice ice bath when he arrives at the Manor; however, he has several blocks to go and his stomach is making its emptiness known in rumbles and coiling whines. He looks up at the sky. The sun is high, maybe noon. He tries to remember what he ate for breakfast only to recall he only had time for a half-cup of coffee at his office.

Lunch. Then the ice bath.

More familiar with this area of muggle London than he would like to admit aloud, Draco’s feet take a corner then another, barely paying attention to the people and autos milling about around him. 

Despite the feeling of accomplishment from hard exercise, his brain is already feeding him his agenda for the morrow along with a reminder to cancel tea with Helen later in the week. There is simply too much to take care of.

But today . . . today he’s free, and he means to enjoy the downtime.

He sees the bistro he has patronized numerous times, including once with a baby-toting Granger and decides this place is as good as any. The staff is nice enough, the ambiance is pleasant and quiet, and the music piping through the space is the same familiar songs playing in the Granger’s garage. The foot traffic is pretty light and his eyes are trained for the restaurant door; but a flash of color in his peripheral draws his attention and he chokes on his saliva.

Because not twenty feet away is Granger looking windblown and glowing next to a wildly gesticulating Mrs. Ronald Weasely wrapped up in an eye-melting fuchsia dress. They are talking about something “precious” and “adorable” and “tiny” when Granger catches sight of him, tripping over her feet and mouthing his name with a narrowing of her eyes.

He winces but steps forward, nodding to her in greeting. “Granger.” His gaze slides over Pretty in Pink. “Mrs. Weasley, what a pleasant surprise to see you again.”

The blonde woman’s blue eyes darts between him and Granger for a moment before her grin expands and she insists. “Please, Draco, call me Aria.”

“You two know each other?” Granger’s eyes are wide and disbelieving, her hands tight on the velvety strap of her gaudy beaded bag, her mouth a defined line of discontented crimson. He gives her a questioning look. Her gaze skitters away even as her body rocks on her heels.

Pretty in Pink holds her arms out toward him as if he’s a prize she just won. “Yes! Draco here popped up at our house about two weeks ago to deliver a lovely late wedding gift and talk to Ronnie.”

Granger stares at the bubbly blonde a few beats before addressing him, incredulous. “You _apologized to Ron_?”

From anyone else, he thinks, skepticism would irk him. From her, however, he finds himself simply gratified and amused. “I’ve apologized to a lot of people, Granger. A veritable _army_ in fact.”

Backhanding him in the chest, Pretty in Pink laughs. “It wasn’t much of an apology.”

Though trying, he can’t find it in himself to be irritated, his mouth curving into a half-smirk. “No, it wasn’t.” He directs his full grin toward Granger who is still gaping at him like a fish out of water. “He refused to forgive me, if it makes you feel better. I haven’t lost sleep over it.”

She shakes her head at him, struck speechless. He wants to say something snide, something to draw her fire, but as with all of his decisions lately, he asks himself, _What would Lucius do?_ , then does the exact opposite. _Nothing_.

“Oh Draco!” Pretty in Pink fairly shouts, startling a few passersby, grabs his arm in a move that strikes his as inappropriately familiar. “Where were you headed just now?”

He smiles at both ladies. “I was actually on my way to lunch.”

Blue eyes widen comically wide as Pretty in Pink sucks in a long breath to bombastically ask if he would like to join her and Hermione as they were on their way to lunch too after a long stint at hospital.

Preparing to politely decline, his eyes skim across Granger’s horrified face and switches tact. “I couldn’t refuse such a kind offer from such lovely ladies.” He opens the door for them, ushering them through. 

As she brushes past, Granger mutters under her breath, “I still don’t like this.” He merely shrugs with a wry grin. He knows being around him with the vow and unanswered questions between them is a strain on her; but he’s actually rather . . . _pleased_ to see her. _Surprising_.

They order, and he insists he be allowed to treat them. Pretty in Pink falls over herself thanking him while Granger crosses arms and watches him through narrowed eyes. She seems to be nursing a un understated impatience toward him. It’s strange how much it bothers him, like a bur in his shoe. 

Settling in a booth furthest from the door, he watches Granger’s eyes tracking different paths through the maze of tables. “You two were at hospital?”

Pretty in Pink is sitting next to him opposite Granger, her knuckles finding his solar plexus a second time as she declares, “We were waiting for Fleur’s baby to be born. She finally made an appearance this morning after seventeen hours of labor.” She sighs, hands smoothing down her front. “A beautiful girl. They named her Victoire.”

Fleur Weasley nee Delaceour. 

“Please extend my congratulations to the new parents.”

Pleased as punch, Pretty in Pink fairly _twinkles_ at him. “Of course!”

Their number is called, and Granger practically vaults toward the till before he can move, grabbing their trays and edging back to the booth. While she’s away, Pretty in Pink levels an intense stare at him and asks, “So . . . what’s going on between you two?”

He shoots a quixotic look at her. “Between who?”

“Hermione seems to be skittish around you.” Briefly, he wonders what this half-blood interloper knows about any of them, about the war and their sins against each other.

He scoffs, spying Granger’s approach, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Granger thinks I’m _incomparable_.”

A sharp pain erupts in his shin before his former victim sets down and arranges the trays, huffing, “An incomparable _git_ , if I recall correctly.”

Pretty in Pink laughs as if this is the most hilarious thing she’s ever heard, and Draco wonders how anyone could be around this blinding creature for any length of time and not feel completely exhausted.

“Better than an insufferable swot.” Granger’s mouth flatlines into a mulish expression in counter to his challenging look. Really, riling her up like this is much more satisfying than tormenting her. He distantly wonders how things would have been different had he made this discovery sooner.

They enjoy their meals in companionable silence for long moments with Pretty in Pink humming discordantly after every bite. Draco tries to think of it as _charming_ , allows himself to be glad for the company. His days are often fraught with long hours of loneliness, exacerbated by the ongoing cold war with his mother. Even a new barely-there acquaintance in migraine-inducing neon and an ex-enemy is preferable to eating alone _again_.

Eventually, Granger wipes her mouth and sets her hands down on the table, pinning him with that unwarranted glower. “Did you apologize to Harry too?”

Using occlumency, he brings up his walls, returning her stare with shrewd eyes. “I believe I already told you, I’ve apologized to a lot of people.”

Pretty in Pink grabs his shoulder roughly even as she addresses Granger with a chuckle in her voice. “Did you two get along this well at Hogwarts?”

He shakes his head slowly as Granger firmly answers in the negative. Using the segue, Draco politely asks the handsy Mrs. Weasley where she attended as he doesn’t remember seeing her in school. She rhapsodizes her regret that she had not attended Hogwarts while excitedly describing how she was homeschooled with her siblings. 

Draco tunes her out when she details her class schedule hour by hour, coming back to attention when she tells Granger that someone named Quintus would like to talk to her. “He would really like to ask your forgiveness for whatever he did in person.”

From her slightly green, somewhat frustrated expression, Draco surmises this isn’t the first time the subject has been brought up. “I’ve already told him on the mobile that there is no need to apologize.” She sips her water, focusing her eyes on a nest of ice cubes. “I know you and Ron wish it otherwise; but I’m simply not interested.” 

Pretty in Pink nods absently before glancing at a strange gadget strapped to her wrist emblazoned by a series of numbers. “Goodness! Look at the time! I have to meet Ronnie at the shop.” She stands and hip checks Draco’s arm. He suppresses the impulse to roll his eyes, exiting the booth and helping the newest Weasley spouse. 

She thanks him for buying lunch before turning to Granger who is half out of the booth, poised to leave as well. “Don’t worry about coming with, Hermione. Stay and finish your lunch.” Her eyes shift toward Draco with a discreet wink. 

Draco stares at her. What the buggering hell was that all about? “Thank you for the sparkling company, Mrs. Weasley.” He takes her hand but doesn’t kiss it, aware of how strange it would look on the muggle side of things.

Her smile is almost as blindingly bright as her dress as she moves toward the door. 

Draco glances at Granger, still hanging out of the booth as if unsure of how to proceed. He takes his seat with a smirk. She watches him warily as she settles back into hers. Blithely, he stretches out his legs beneath the table and returns the attention. “Does _Weasel_ -y know his new wife is an incorrigible flirt?”

“She’s wasn’t flirting, you arrogant sod. That’s how she is with everyone.” 

He leans forward slightly, gaze tracing over her sour face. “While our acquaintance has been . . . less than congenial over the years, I must confess I’m mystified by your anger with me, Granger.”

She blinks, deflating, her arms coming up defensively across her chest. “After our last conversation –“

“At your house.”

She shoots him a quelling look. “At my house, I formed a theory and spoke to Harry. While he neither confirmed nor denied my theory, it was obvious to me you had discussed this vow with him.”

He doesn’t see a reason to deny it but remains silent – plausible deniability. She closes her eyes, her face paling under his gaze until he finds himself legitimately concerned for her health. 

Just when he’s opening his mouth to say something, her brown eyes are open again, the usually bright cocoa of her eyes are shining feverishly and surrounded by red-tinged sclera. “You are both so evasive about it. I’m just . . . so sick of secrets!”

So is he. So is he. He watches her, wanting to say everything but knowing it won’t serve any purpose or anyone, especially her.

She pins him with a glare so fierce he imagines her as a particularly aggressive Peruvian Vipertooth dragon. “Please, just tell me: Has your father threatened my parents?”

“No.” Easy enough. 

Her entire body seems to cave on itself and blood once again suffuses her features. His hands ache. His tongue tastes like ash. 

Quietly, she peers at him through her lashes. Reserved. “Me?” He notes her tone. She doesn’t sound afraid or uncertain. Rather, her voice is pitched in a way that suggests expectation, determination, . . . _resignation_.

His occlumency walls were never let down, and he reinforces them now, remaining silent. 

She nods as if he’s affirmed her assumption. “Why are you protecting me?”

When he speaks, his voice cracks. “I owe you.”

“No. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Granger, I am guilty of many things. Allow me, at least, the opportunity to appease a small fraction of my conscience.”

She toys with her plate, dancing her fingertips along the edge. “Who else knows?”

He chuckles without humor. “I knew it was too much to ask you to trust me.” Sighing loudly, he shifts in his seat, gazing out the window. “The threat Lucius posed has been dealt with. He is locked up, penniless, and near powerless. And due to the vow, should he attempt to harm you from his cell – even through an agent on the outside – I, the Aurors and Wizengamot will know.”

Her hands come up to rub her eyes as she takes a shuddering breath. “I see.”

The ache in his hands spreads to his arms, his chest. It’s a warm sensation. Bitter and sweet at once. “You’ll be relieved to know I consulted with Shacklebolt before executing my plan and constructing the vow.” He smiles reassuringly. “I wanted to make sure the vow could be broken when the main threat has passed; though the core promise will remain in effect.”

Her eyes are soft, tired, _done_. Small hands, delicate calloused fingers are trembling as they comb through chaotic brown hair. “You don’t owe me anything, Malfoy.” She’s repeating herself because there’s too much going on in her brain, he knows. 

Disappointment is a cold, heavy coiled thing in his midsection. He had kept all of this from her to spare her the added stress. “Vow or no vow, should you need anything I can provide, do not hesitate to ask.” Sternly, “I mean it, Granger.”

One corner of her mouth lifts in a half smile. “Instead of making vows and promises, why don’t you just try being my friend?”

Honestly, he has actually thought of this . . . very unlikely possibility. The idea had been promptly discarded as utterly self-serving. After all, what could he possibly offer the Golden Girl, besides his wealth which he knew would never impress her? And what of their history that, short of a time-turner and a full personality adjustment, could never be interpreted favorably?

Licking his lips, he tells her he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling everything between them to make such a thing possible. 

Her face is gentle, flushed, and – “I thought you were smart.” He’s confused as she climbs out of her seat to stand next to him. Thinking she means to leave, he shifts out of the booth as well, standing respectfully. “The beginning is usually the best place to start, Malfoy.”

With a half step back, putting distance between them, she grins up at him and holds out a hand. “I’m Hermione Granger, and you are?”

A sensation, like the light and swirl of magic, rises from his toes, zinging along his nerve endings. It’s similar to a feeling he had a few years ago when he knew he had been chosen to receive the Mark, only this time untinged by dread and darkness. No, this is more wholesome, more welcome. 

He stares down at her seriously for long moments before engulfing her hand in his, shaking it once. Her gaze turns questioning when he retains his grasp, bringing her hand up to his mouth with a slow, deliberate movement. He grins at her explosive blush, the heat of it reaching warm on his lips as he kisses her knuckles. “Draco Malfoy of the Wiltshire Malfoys. It’s a pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus CHRIST. It's only 11 pm where i am so I'm technically on time but I had to edit this thing while simultaneously taking 5 hours of online foster parenting classes AND dying my hair for Halloween (I am a Slytherin Hogwarts student and my son is a Hufflepuff -- I have Draco's wand and my baby boy has Cedric Diggory's XD).
> 
> ANYWAY! Before I go get some much needed sleep . . . 
> 
> Below is the timeline of events in this story so you have an idea of how much time these fifteen chapters have spanned:
> 
> Story Timeline
> 
> 1998  
> April – Teddy Lupin is born  
> May 2 – Battle of Hogwarts  
> December 25 – Draco sentenced to a year on probation/limited magic
> 
> 1999  
> February -- Hermione leaves to locate and de-spell parents  
> March – Move back to England / Hermione explains  
> March 15 – Narcissa sentenced to 1 year house arrest / no magic  
> May 18 – Helen sends the first letter for tea May 25  
> (Draco’s 19th birthday)  
> Sept 7 – 1st tea  
> Sept 16 – 2nd tea  
> (Hermione’s 20th birthday)  
> December 14 – 22nd tea at the cinema  
> December 16 – Draco meets Richard; Helen and Hermione attend therapy together
> 
> 2000  
> January 4 – 23rd tea in Diagon Alley  
> January 11 – Hermione ambushes Draco at her house  
> February 5 – Hermione runs into Draco in muggle London while babysitting Teddy  
> February 11 – Narcissa tells Malfoy she wants to meet Helen; Hermione and Aria go out for the day then join Ginny and Aria’s friends for her hen night (just mentioned not detailed); Narcissa sends an invitation to Helen and Richard  
> February 12 – Ron’s wedding to Aria  
> February 17 – Helen has tea at Malfoy Manor  
> March 8 – Ron and Aria find out they are pregnant (about 7 weeks, due end of November)  
> March 15 – Narcissa completes sentence, no longer under house arrest – 6 months probation starts with limited magic  
> March 18 – Hermione goes on a date with Quintus  
> March 19-23 – Hermione’s depression  
> March 24 – Hermione begins the baby blanket at the library/researching for her business  
> March 25 – Draco and Richard discuss the apology  
> March 29 – Draco apologizes at the library  
> March 31-April 15 – Richard and Helen in Sardinia  
> April 1 – Interlude – Harry, Hermione, Ron discuss the apology, find out about Ron’s baby  
> April 2 – Teddy’s 2nd birthday / party  
> April 13 – Draco and Hermione meet and discuss the vow  
> April 15 – Helen receives letter from Narcissa and sends one back, beginning their civil acquaintance  
> April 16 – Hermione tells her parents about her future plans  
> April 18 – Draco apologizes to Ron  
> April 22 – Helen and Narcissa have tea at the Grangers’ house (with Richard)  
> May 2 – Victoire Weasley is born -- Draco, Hermione and Aria have lunch; Hermione invites Draco to an outing


End file.
